


Rough and Tumblr Fics

by leveragehunters (Monkeygreen)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Anthology, Asexual Steve Rogers, Gen, Ghost Bucky Barnes, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Succubus Natasha, Werewolf Steve Rogers, fallen angel steve rogers, kindergarten teacher steve rogers, salty language and sex talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-07-27 06:58:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7608292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeygreen/pseuds/leveragehunters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a collection of Steve/Bucky stories originally posted on my Tumblr. They're rough (hence the dreadful pun in the title) and unpolished, but I wanted to put them all in one place. Some  of them relate to my other stories or series, but this is indicated in the chapter notes.</p><p>Chapter one: In Death's Dateless Night (relatively canon-based)<br/>Chapter two: Phosphorence (<i>And There But For the Grace</i> universe)<br/>Chapter three: ...but it Would Have Been Polite (brief follow on from <i>Mandatory Disclosure Not Required</i>)<br/>Chapter four: Moments of Note (<i>Cards on the Table</i> verse, Succubus Nat and Ace Steve friendship)<br/>Chapter five: Here a Wolf, There a Wolf, Everywhere a Werewolf (<i>Werewolf? There Wolf</i> from Steve's POV)<br/>Chapter six: Buy One, Get Infinite Free (Bachelor Charity Auction with kindergarten teacher Steve - modern no powers AU)<br/>Chapter seven: Definitely Not a Meet-cute (art student Steve/trainer Bucky - modern no powers AU<br/>Chapter eight: Monster (relatively canon-based)<br/>Chapter nine: Smitten (Winter Soldier Bucky/strong skinny not-cap Steve - modern)<br/>Chapter ten: It's Snot Funny (relatively canon-based)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Death's Dateless Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The funeral was everything you’d expect._
> 
> _It was a service fit for an icon. For a legend. For an idea, resurrected from history and thrown against evils and tyrants again and again. No one seemed to remember the man behind the shield. Steve Rogers was distressingly absent from the proceedings, from the black-shrouded pomp and circumstance._
> 
> _No one spoke of the man. They spoke only of the Captain._
> 
> _In a way, it was like Steve Rogers hadn’t died at all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a failed prompt fill for: _Bucky showing up at Steve's funeral after continually putting off going to see him and the Avengers having to pull Bucky-beating and yelling 'he can’t be dead, he promised!'-off the coffin_ , but as if I could ever write anything that sad. Title from Shakespeare’s Sonnet 30, _For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night_. Post Winter Soldier, no Age of Ultron or Civil War.

* * *

 

There comes a point when even the strongest heart, the fiercest soul, can’t carry on. When the load becomes too heavy. When the will simply says _enough_.

Anyone can reach that point.

Anyone.

When we reach that point, if we’re lucky, we’ll have people around who _see_ us. Who _know_ us. Who can catch us before the crash. Who can find a new path for us when the trail we’ve walked for so long crumbles beneath us.

 

* * *

 

The funeral was everything you’d expect.

It was a service fit for an icon. For a legend. For an idea, resurrected from history and thrown against evils and tyrants again and again. Captain America had stood against monsters and aliens and gods. Stood against men and machines and the creeping evil that arose whenever people were reduced to _things_. Stood tall and strong and brave, beating back everything the world could throw at him.

Until he didn’t. Until he couldn’t.

No one seemed to remember the man behind the shield. Steve Rogers was distressingly absent from the proceedings, from the black-shrouded pomp and circumstance.

He was the only one absent.  Everyone who was anyone was there, to see and to be seen. The beautiful and famous stretched like shadows scattered across the Arlington lawn, the cameras and press a glittering counterpoint.

His team was there, the Avengers all present and accounted for, stoic and determined in the face of the crush. No one was allowed to get too close. Dr Banner’s presence helped ensure no one wanted to.

The President spoke. The leaders of several countries spoke. Dignitaries and generals spoke. They spoke of Captain America.

No one spoke of Steve Rogers. No one spoke of his art. Of his tendency to leave his socks on the floor until they threatened to achieve sentience. No one mentioned that he’d cheat at cards and video games given half a chance, grinning unrepentantly when he was caught. That his sense of humour gravitated terribly towards the filthy. That he’d empty his wallet whenever he passed a homeless person on the street.

That he still couldn’t sleep in a bed that was too soft.

That he’d sometimes wake in the middle of the night and not know where he was. Not know when he was. That sometimes he’d still wake up and not remember that this was his body.  That the crushing weight of giving everything, of giving everything up, over and over again, of discovering it had been for _nothing_ , was like a black hole in his heart.

Not that most of that would have been appropriate for a funeral, even if Steve Rogers had been remembered. But it didn’t matter. No one spoke of the man. They spoke only of the Captain.

In a way, it was like Steve Rogers hadn’t died at all.

 

* * *

 

The sun was sinking over Arlington, the last blazing rays painting fire over the coffin. The crush had cleared, the press was gone. Only the Avengers remained. The cemetery workers had set up lights around the gravesite, the coffin still on its stand, and left. They were good, solid people, dedicated to their job, but they understood there were more important things than getting work done on the clock. They would come back later when the Avengers were done paying their respects.

The Avengers weren’t so much paying their respects as they were standing on a slight rise. It overlooked the Captain’s coffin but their attention was directed outwards. Like they were waiting. They were talking quietly among themselves.

The sun crept lower.

A shadow slipped from the darker shadows. The shadow was not what the Avengers were waiting for. It shouldn’t be here. It was wanted all over the world. But it didn’t much care anymore. It didn’t much care if someone opened fire and put a bullet between its eyes. It was kind of hoping someone might do just that.

One last ray of the setting sun splashed a moment of brilliant gold across the shadow, reflecting briefly off his metal arm, before he was once more cloaked in darkness. He stopped as he reached the coffin. Stared at it. Reached out and pressed one finger delicately to the polished wood.

“You goddamned fucking idiot,” Bucky said, eerily calm and quiet, barely above a whisper. “Why the fuck did you die? Why—“ Then sobs were tearing out of him. He curled over the coffin and clenched his fists, slammed them against the wood. “I was going to come. I was going to. But I needed to remember enough. I needed to be worth it. I almost. So many times I almost. Fuck, Steve.” He ground his forehead against the coffin’s lid, so hard it hurt, and wept. “I’m sorry.”  

It was inevitable that they’d hear him. Inevitable. _He_ _did not care._

“Bucky? Bucky Barnes?” Bucky looked up. He recognised the man approaching him, slowly, warily, like Bucky was a feral dog who’d been struck by a car, a savage wolf with its leg caught in a trap. Bucky knew him. Bucky remembered almost killing him several times.

“Sam Wilson.” His voice was ragged and rough; it hurt his ears. “You can kill me or take me in. I don’t much care. I just need another couple of minutes here.” He could see the others approaching. Recognised them. Saw those with weapons had them at the ready. He didn’t _care_. He was half lying on Steve’s coffin and he didn’t care, because Steve was dead and there wasn’t much point in anything anymore. Why hadn’t he just gone to him? With his guilt and his fractured brain and his half-formed memories filled with blood and death and flashes of golden light and said _You’re Steve and I’m Bucky and I think I belong here_ because he knew _he knew_ Steve would've made it right but it was too fucking late now. Why hadn’t he just…he let his head drop, hair falling over his face. There were no more tears. His fingers opened, curled against the wood. Carefully. His metal hand could rip right through it.

“Shit.” It was Sam again. Bucky waited for whatever was going to happen now.  “This was not in the job description.”

“Should we stop him?” Bucky thought it was Dr Banner.

“And tell him what? You tell him why you don’t want him to come, man’s going to be here so fast he’ll set a land speed record. Besides, right now I don’t really think _he’s_ a threat.”

Bucky tuned them out. He waited for sirens. Or helicopters. Waited for whatever was going to come. He knew it would come. Time passed, he didn’t know how much. He tipped his head so his cheek was resting on the smooth wood. “I’m sorry, Steve. I’m sorry I didn’t come. I knew you would've wanted me to, would've been expecting me to. You would've been waiting. I know I let you down. ”

“You didn’t let me down.”

Bucky went cold. His metal fingers scraped against the wood, leaving four long gouges.  It was Steve’s voice. It couldn’t be Steve’s voice. Steve was dead.

“Bucky?” It was soft this time. So soft, so gentle. Bucky swallowed hard and his shoulders hunched. He didn’t look up. He’d finally lost it, the cracks in his brain shattering apart. Maybe that was okay. If he was going to hear voices, he was okay if they were Steve’s.

Someone was coming closer, someone was coming around into his line of sight. Someone tall and broad, someone wearing jeans and a long-sleeved jacket and a ballcap, someone only just visible to his enhanced sight. “Bucky,” the person said, with wonder and awe, like Bucky was a treasure they’d been searching for; with a touch of sorrow, like Bucky was something in pain. The person sounded like Steve. The person stood like Steve. The person took two steps closer and they fucking moved like Steve.  

Bucky was afraid, like he hadn’t been since the Helicarrier, like he hadn’t been since Steve had pulled him back to who he was, reminded him there was a Bucky to be. “You’re dead.”

“No, Bucky, I’m not.” Steve, it had to be Steve because he was close enough Bucky could see his eyes and no one but Steve had eyes like that, no one looked at him like that but Steve.

Bucky exploded off the coffin, had Steve on his back in the grass, hands shoving him down, before he knew he was going to move. Someone must have reacted behind him because Steve made a hand gesture, but Bucky didn’t care. He pinned him, hands on his shoulders. “I thought you were dead,” he hissed. “I thought you were dead and I didn’t get to see you, I didn’t get to say any of the things I was supposed to say because you were dead.” Steve wasn’t fighting him. Steve was looking up at him and his hands were on his arms, not trying to pry him off; they were stroking gently, same on the metal arm as on the other.

“I’m not and you can say what you need to, Bucky. Whatever you need.” Steve’s hands were on his face now, wiping at his cheeks, and Bucky realised they were wet.

“You were dead. I thought you were dead.”

“I’m not.” Steve’s hands were curving around the back of his head, were pulling him down, and he was burying his face in Steve’s chest and Steve’s arms were around him and he could _hear_ his heart beating and that meant he wasn’t dead. _He wasn’t dead_.

“You’re alive.”

“I’m alive.”

“I don’t understand.”

Steve heaved a sigh. One arm was tight around Bucky, the other was stroking his hair. “It’s complicated. Sometimes you just can’t keep going. It was the only way out for me. Job like mine, you can’t just say I quit. They don’t let you walk away. You’ve got to make your own way out.”

“What about the shield. What about everything?”

“Sam.”

A throat cleared behind them. Bucky’s eyes flicked over his shoulder. Sam was watching them. Protective. Wary. “Captain America at your service,” he said. They flicked back to Steve.

“You’re giving it up, just like that?”

“Just like that. It’s time.”

“What are you going to do?”

Steve smiled, pushed the hair out of Bucky’s face. “I was going to go back to looking for you.”

Bucky stared at him.

“Guess I’ll have to come up with something else,” he said. “Unless you’re planning to run again.”

“No.” Bucky took a deep breath. “There’s something I have to say.” Steve looked at him seriously. “I think I belong with you.”

Steve’s smile was slow and warm and it made something unfurl in Bucky chest. He’d been right, Steve would make it _right._ “You’re right, you do.” Steve patted his back. “Let me up?”

Bucky got to his feet, reached his right hand down to pull Steve to his feet. Didn’t let go, threaded his fingers through Steve’s and held on. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Same thing you are, I guess. I wanted to say goodbye.”

“You could have got caught.”

Steve shook his head. “Not when everyone knows I’m dead.” He slung his arm around Bucky’s neck, pulled him in and held him and Bucky pressed into him, wrapped an arm around his waist, breathed into his neck _. He wasn’t dead, he was alive, alive_. The Avengers were watching them with a mix of expressions. Bucky didn’t care. All his attention was for Steve, Steve who _wasn’t dead_. “Tony, do you think you can turn those arrangements into something for two people?”

“You sure about that, Rogers?”

“Never been more sure of anything in my life.” He chuckled a little and shook his head as he pulled Bucky closer. “Never been more sure in any of them.”


	2. Phosphorescence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A strange demon possesses Bucky. This proves to be a terrible mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a quick coda to [_And There But For the Grace_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7262050) that started out as a response to a comment by kikis, who was wondering what Steve was now. I don’t quite know how it got so out of hand? But here we are. It’s rough and was written fast, so, you know, just be aware of that going in. Oh, and there’s some swearing and a bit of nudity. And maybe some fluff.

* * *

 

 _Phosphorescence. Now there’s a word to lift your hat to… to find that phosphorescence, that light within…_  
-Emily Dickinson

  
At the heart of each of the Heavenly Host, from Seraphim to mere Angel, was a pool of golden light _._ Lucifer, the Morningstar, had the most glorious light of them all and so was called the Bright One. When he rebelled, not every angel who followed did so out of love or righteous wrath. Some rebelled for power. Some from discontent. Some for the borrowed glory of standing at Lucifer’s side.

When the rebellion was broken, when Lucifer was cast down, not every rebellious angel had to be flung from Heaven; some leapt, unrepentant and defiant to the very end. But whyever and however they found their way to Hell, every angel became a demon when the Seraphim plunged their hands into that pool of golden light and transmuted it to darkness.

 

* * *

 

Not every demon wanted out of Hell because they hated torturing human souls. Some demons wanted out because they hated being subjected in Hell to the same ranks that had existed in Heaven, hated being forced to do as they were bid. Fear of what those higher ranked demons could do kept them in line, terror of what Lucifer _would_ do kept them in their place, but they were always alert for a way out of Hell. A summons to earth? The competition for such a thing was fierce among a certain kind of demon.

This particular demon had been fast enough, sneaky enough, to catch a summons. He’d been bound for a few years, served the not-overly bright humans who’d called him out of Hell and used him, and escaped when they’d failed to properly set their binding circle. This demon had no intention of wandering the earth as a spirit; finding a suitable body to possess was a priority. Something nice and strong; something striking. A bit mentally fragile was always a plus.

Who could know whether a person once possessed was somehow more attractive to demons, if they gave off a certain aura. Or whether it was coincidence or the unknowable machinations of fate. Or whether Steve’s presence created some kind of subconscious draw. Whatever the reason, late one night in a hotel room where two men lay sleeping—on a rare trip away from their home in the mountains—the demon slipped into the mind of a man who was no stranger to being possessed by a demon.

It was a decision the demon would come to regret. Deeply.

The man’s mind was scarred and peppered with a kaleidoscope of strange fractures, but it didn’t stop the demon from taking control. The demon felt the man wake up and waited for him to panic. Waited for confusion and fear and begging. For the man’s mind to start screaming in terror. The demon had possessed more than a few humans while he’d been bound and that was always how it went.

None of that happened. All the demon felt was a predatory assessment. A stillness. The man was silent, poised. Watching the demon.

It was disturbing. The demon briefly wondered if the man was insane. _“Why aren’t you afraid?”_

The man spoke and his voice was cold like the depths of winter. _“You have one chance. Leave.”_

The demon laughed. _“I’m not going anywhere.”_

A low wave of anger, like the warning growl of some great and terrible beast, flowed through the man’s mind and around the demon, flavoured with a wisp of something that almost felt like pity. Then the man slipped away, going deep inside his mind, and a single word floated back behind him.

Confused, the demon asked, _“What the hell’s a Steve?”_ but the man had gone deeper than the demon could easily reach.

 

* * *

 

Steve half-woke to Bucky slipping wordlessly out of bed and stripping out of the cotton pants he slept in when they were away from home. It wasn’t the sudden nudity that was odd; neither of them had anything even remotely approaching body-consciousness. No, it was the muttering about the clothing choices on offer in the luggage he was rummaging through that had him puzzled.

“Bucky?” Steve called sleepily.

“What’s up with that name? It sounds like something you’d call a dog,” Bucky’s voice replied. “And what the hell is with this arm?”

Steve’s eyes snapped open, he saw the red glow from Bucky’s eyes, and he was moving before he had time to think, had Bucky’s body pinned, back against the wall, his metal arm locked against his body. “Get out of him. Right now.” Rage was burning through him, too high, so high he could barely think, but he forced it down. Locked it down so he _could_ think.

“I don’t think so, no.” The demon in Bucky’s body tried to throw Steve off and failed. Frowned, eyeing Steve, gaze travelling down his bare chest and back up. “Now, how are you doing that? I should be able to toss you across the room, especially as strong as this body is.”

“I’m a demon, too.” Steve bared his teeth. He knew he wasn’t precisely a demon anymore, but right now, that didn’t matter. “And you _will_ give him back.”

“You’re a demon.” Bucky’s eyes narrowed as the demon looked at him thoughtfully.

“Yes.” He looked into Bucky’s eyes, trying to look _through_ them, not knowing if Bucky would be looking out or if Bucky would have gone deep. Not knowing if he’d be able to hear him. “Bucky? Hang on. It’s going to be okay.”

“You don’t look like a demon,” the demon said, blithely unconcerned. “You don’t feel like you’re possessing someone. Or like you’re bound. But you don’t feel…you feel strange. I guess you could be.”

It took everything he had not to howl with fury. Calm. He could be calm. So calm. He shifted his focus so he was meeting Bucky’s eyes, looking at the demon. “Look at me,” he said. “See for yourself.”

“I am looking at you.”

“No. _Look_ at me.” Demons could look at a human soul and see its sin, could look inside someone, past their body, to see the part of them that was eternal. The demon would be able to see what Steve really was. Maybe then he’d _listen_.

The demon eyed him. Then Bucky’s body exploded into violence, his metal arm swinging up, trying to smash into Steve’s head, but Steve caught it, pinned it against the wall with his body, shoved his thumb into Bucky’s shoulder, into the scars he knew were agony, and Bucky’s body mewled in pain and sagged, metal arm going limp. _Bucky_ would have kept fighting; the demon just whimpered. “If you make me hurt him again,” Steve growled, low and harsh and dangerous. “I’ll destroy you, if I have to put a bullet in my skull and come in there after you to do it.”

“You sound like a demon,” the demon panted. “All right.” Bucky’s eyes went unfocussed as the demon stared at Steve, stared _through_ Steve, past his flesh, to what lay at the heart of him. And then he hissed in pain and snapped Bucky’s eyes shut. They were watering. “W _hat are you?_ That hurt, you asshole. That’s, you’re fucking filled with light. How the hell are you filled with light? How did you get your light back?” Bucky’s voice was a little high, a little panicked, a little confused.

Steve hid his shock. _He was filled with light?_ “ _He_ gave it back to me, the man whose body you’re wearing.” Because who else could it have been?

The demon blinked Bucky’s eyes, tentatively opened them, squinting like a man staring into the sun, then they went wide in horror. “What is that?”

“What?”

“On your forehead. _What is that_?”

Bucky’s voice was shaky and his eyes were locked on the centre of Steve’s forehead. And Steve knew. He knew what the demon must be seeing. What must be there, that Lucifer must have marked him when he’d pressed lips of burning cold to his skin. “Lucifer. The Morningstar.”

Bucky’s skin went pale and ashy, the colour of shock.

“He gave me this body. He saved me. And he saved the man whose body you’ve stolen.” Steve was bending the truth of what had happened so hard it was shattering into tiny glittering pieces and he didn’t care. Knew if Lucifer _was_ watching, if Steve angered him, he’d face the consequences, and he _didn’t care_ , because this demon was _afraid_ now, and there was nothing Steve wouldn’t risk for Bucky. “Hell doesn’t want me and still he came for me so I wouldn’t be a spirit forever. He told me he would always have his eyes on me.”

Bucky’s eyes were huge with fear, his head moving slowly back and forth in denial. “As for what I am? I’m _his_.” Steve pressed one finger over Bucky’s heart. “So get out of him, go back to Hell, find the Morningstar and beg for forgiveness. And maybe, just maybe, you might survive.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn't—”

The noise Steve made could never be mistaken for anything human. It was pure righteous rage, dragged out of the depths of his fear for Bucky. “If you stay on earth I will find you and I will find a way to destroy you. Get out of him. Now.”

Suddenly, Bucky sagged forward and his eyes were his again. Steve pulled him into a crushing hug. “I’m sorry, Bucky, I’m sorry.” He kept saying it, couldn’t seem to stop even as Bucky’s arms were coming around him and holding him tightly, as Bucky was saying it wasn’t his fault, saying it was okay, it was all right, but Steve could barely hear him. He just held on tighter, pressed his face into Bucky’s neck.

“Steve.” Bucky’s hand was in his hair, tugging gently, then more sharply, to get his attention. It pulled him back. “Steve, it’s okay. I wasn’t afraid.” Steve dragged in a shuddering breath and lifted his head to look at Bucky. Bucky’s eyes were concerned and he lifted his right hand to touch Steve’s face. “I knew you’d get him out, get me free. I wasn’t afraid. Pissed off, yes. But not afraid.”

Steve searched his face and Bucky rubbed his thumb across Steve’s cheek. “Bucky, he was a demon. He took your body. He—”

Bucky interrupted him. “But I have you.” He leaned forward and kissed Steve softly, gently, and when he spoke his voice was just as soft, just as gentle, but with a core of steel at its heart. “And that meant he was fucked. From the moment he set foot in here.” He tapped his temple. “He was fucked. Completely. He just didn’t know it. How could I be afraid?”

It shook Steve down to his bones, a wash of awe and love, that Bucky had such faith in him. Such absolutely unwavering faith. He pressed a hand against Bucky’s chest, his voice barely above a whisper as he said Bucky’s name.

“I figured the worst that would happen is you’d lock me up somewhere and call Barton. I’d spend an uncomfortable night but it’d be fine. You’d never let him hurt me. I went deep, where he couldn’t follow, and I watched.” Bucky wrapped his metal fingers around Steve’s wrist. “But I tell you, that bullshit about the bullet, you’d better not have been serious,” he warned.

“It was a bluff,” Steve said, tipping his forehead to rest against Bucky’s. “I would have locked you up, called Clint, if I couldn’t have gotten him out of you.” Bucky didn’t need to know that if someday that _was_ the only way to save him, it wouldn’t be a bluff. It wouldn’t kill Steve, only his body, and he’d sacrifice so much more than that to save him.

“Good.” Bucky’s metal fingers were still locked around his wrist; Steve knew he wouldn’t let go anytime soon. He wrapped his other arm around Bucky, pulled him in, splayed his fingers against Bucky’s back and rested his chin on Bucky’s hair, Bucky’s cheek nestled against his shoulder. “Steve?” Bucky’s voice when he spoke again was hesitant and it put Steve on alert, after he’d been so calm about the demon. “What you said about…who gave you your body. About who saved us in Moscow.” His fingers tightened on Steve’s wrist. “Was that true?”

Steve swallowed. He probably shouldn’t. Almost certainly shouldn’t. But he couldn’t lie to Bucky. “Yes.”

“Shit.” Bucky breathed out and his metal fingers tightened even more, hard enough to hurt before he realised what he was doing. He relaxed his hold. Slightly. Didn’t let go. “Shit, Steve.”

He ran his hand up Bucky’s back to curve around the nape of his neck, letting his fingers tangle in his hair. “Don’t think about it,” he said quietly.  "Really don’t think about. Please.“

Bucky pressed a kiss to Steve’s skin. “That may be the best advice you’ve ever given me.” Eventually, he sighed and straightened. Without speaking, he pulled Steve back to bed, pushed him down and then climbed in after him.

Steve was content to be manhandled, happy to give Bucky whatever he wanted, but he was surprised when Bucky prodded him until he rolled over so Bucky could pull him back and spoon him, could wrap himself around Steve. “You sure you don’t want this the other way around?”

“No,” Bucky said, kissing his shoulder. “I need to know you’re right here where I can hang onto you.” He wiggled his metal fingers and Steve, with a small smile, obediently set his wrist in Bucky’s hand and Bucky folded his fingers closed around it.

Steve wasn’t asleep, wasn’t even close to being asleep, was simply lying, quiet and still, in the circle of Bucky’s arms, in the warmth of his body, when sometime later Bucky asked, “What did he mean when he said you were full of light?”

He opened his eyes, stared into the dark. “I don’t know.”

“But you think you know.”

It warmed him, it always warmed him, the way Bucky knew him. “Maybe.”

“Tell me?”

“How much do you want to know, Bucky? About…what I was before.”

Bucky’s metal thumb brushed back and forth over the vein in his wrist, slow and gentle, and his voice was low, humming with the kind of rock-solid certainty on which universes were built. “There’s nothing about you I don’t want to know. There’s nothing about you I don’t love. Tell me anything you want me to know, because I want to know it all. Nothing you can say will ever scare me away. Nothing you can say will ever make me stop loving you.” Steve felt Bucky’s lips against his hair and his arms tightened, pulling Steve closer. “And if you don’t want to tell me anything? You don’t have to.”

“You know what I was before I was a demon.” Bucky nodded, his thumb moving in slow arcs across Steve’s wrist. “They…when.” He was trying to be matter-of-fact, but it was hard, and he knew he wasn’t succeeding, not completely, when Bucky’s leg curved over his, pulling him even closer. It settled him, Bucky’s warmth all around him, let him say, “Before the Fall, before they threw us into Hell, they turned our light into darkness. That’s how they made us into demons. When we.” He stopped. Drew in a breath and deliberately said, “When _demons_ manifest, they look like what’s inside them, like their darkness. You remember how confused I was when I looked like this.”

“I remember. I also remember me telling you that _this_ is what you were _supposed_ to look like.”

Steve squeezed Bucky’s right arm. “I remember you laughing at me,” he said. Bucky kissed his shoulder and Steve felt him smile against his skin. “Hell doesn’t want me because I’m tainted by redemption. I never understood what that meant, but I think I do now. I think, I think my light…came back. That’s what he meant by redemption. It’s my light.” He had to stop. He could hardly breathe to think of it.

“You’re not a demon.”

“I don’t think I am.” He’d known, they’d both known, that something was strange about him, something was different. Clint’s protections not burning him had been something neither of them could ignore. But this, this certainty; this was so much more than that.

Bucky squeezed Steve’s wrist gently. “Do you know what you are?”

That was a question he always knew the answer to. Voice warm like sunshine, he replied, “Yours.”

Bucky huffed against his shoulder. “ _Steve_.”

“I don’t know. There might not be a word for what I am. But I think I’m not a demon. Not anymore.”

The only sound was their quiet breathing. Bucky let go of Steve, moved back slightly, tugged on his shoulder until he turned over. When he did, Bucky resettled next to him, so close their noses were almost touching. “You know what this means?” he asked.

“What?”

“It means I was right. I told you this was what you looked like on the inside.” Bucky lifted one hand to gently touch Steve’s face. “Beautiful. Doesn’t surprise me that it means you’re filled with light.”

Steve blinked at him then slowly started to smile. “That’s what you’re taking away from this.”

“Yup.” Bucky leaned in and pressed a light kiss to Steve’s mouth.

“That you were right.”

“Yup.” He did it again.

He laughed softly, because what else could he do? “I love you, you know?”

“I know.” Bucky’s smile was soft. “It doesn’t matter what you are, Steve. It never did. I love you no matter what.”


	3. ...but it Would Have Been Polite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky said, "You're mine."
> 
> Steve said, "Yes."
> 
> Steve's about to find out what that means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to fight tooth and nail to keep fluff out of _[Mandatory Disclosure Not Required](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7445839)_. This left me with a pile of pent up fluffiness I had to get out of my system, so I figured I might as well share. If you want to keep the creepiness of Mandatory Disclosure don’t read this. If you don’t care about fluffiness tromping all over the end of it, well... This literally picks up from the end of Mandatory Disclosure.

_“Yes.”_

Bucky’s hand was still gentle, wrapped around Steve’s, but it tightened. The strange lights in Bucky’s eyes flared and he flickered, vanished, and reappeared on the bed. Over Steve.

Steve was used to the weight of Bucky’s gaze, had come to rely on it, to welcome it, somewhere along the line had come to need it.

He wasn’t used to the weight of _Bucky_.

A shiver ran over his skin because he didn’t know what this was. _Yes_ felt right. Belonging with _belonging to_ Bucky felt right. He didn’t know what it meant, but he knew there was no point being afraid. Apart from that one time with the broken mug, Bucky had never hurt him. And Steve knew, after tonight he _knew,_ Bucky could have hurt him. Bucky could have killed him. There was nothing Steve could have done to stop it.

The only thing protecting him from Bucky had been Bucky.

But Bucky’s hand was on the bed next to his ear as he held himself above Steve, his hair was brushing Steve’s face and his…Was it a body? Is that what he should call it? Bucky’s body was pressing down on him through the layers of blankets. He could barely feel Bucky’s chill, but he could feel Bucky’s leg over both of his, and Bucky’s eyes were so close. He couldn’t help another uncertain shiver.

Bucky’s eyes flicked over his face, then he flickered and vanished. His weight was gone, he was gone, and Steve felt it like a loss. It dragged a tiny noise of protest out of him.

Another flicker and Bucky was back, standing beside the bed, a dark, formless shape in his hand. As Steve stared at it, he realised it was the sweater he kept on the couch. He raised his eyes to Bucky’s. Expressionless, he held it out, kept holding it out until Steve reached for it and pulled it on. Bucky kept looking at him, like he was waiting, and after a moment Steve lay back and drew the blankets up over his shoulders.

He was prepared this time when Bucky vanished and reappeared on the bed with him. Lying against his left side this time, but he braced his hand next to Steve’s head, leaning over him, chest only inches above Steve’s, face once more so close his hair was curling across Steve’s cheeks. “Mine,” he said, and it was raspy and rough, but quiet in a way his voice had never been.

Steve briefly closed his eyes. “Yes,” he said as he opened them. “Yours.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked over Steve’s face, and the lights in his eyes, the strange shadows, seemed to warm. The cold was curling off him, but Steve could barely feel it through the sweater and the blankets; only his face was chilled. Bucky leaned closer until the tip of his nose was almost brushing Steve’s. “Sleep.”

“You want me to go to sleep?”

Bucky didn’t reply, his face as still and expressionless as always, but Steve had a sense of expectant waiting.

“I can’t go to sleep with you leaning that close,” he said. He kept his voice soft, because he realised as he spoke he didn’t want to say anything that might hurt Bucky. Part of him, the distant part that had been begging him to run, wanted to burst into hysterical laughter, because Steve was worried about hurting the feelings of a bloody-shouldered apparition? But Steve had been shivering so Bucky had brought him a sweater. Steve knew he didn’t have anything to be scared of and if Bucky wanted to lie here half on top of him while Steve tried to sleep, he was pretty sure he was okay with that.

Bucky’s blue-black eyes were intent, staring down into Steve’s for a long moment, then he tilted his head, hair sliding across Steve’s skin, before lifting it a few inches. Steve figured it was the best he was going to get. A small smile pulled his mouth up at the corner and he thought he saw Bucky’s eyes flicker, thought he saw those strange shadows warm again, and he closed his eyes.

Steve didn’t think he’d sleep. He was wrong. The chill drifting off of Bucky was no worse than a winter’s night, his blankets were warm, and Bucky’s weight was solid and reassuring in a way even the weight of his gaze hadn’t been. He wasn’t alone anymore, he wasn’t alone and neither was Bucky. The last thought he was aware of before sleep claimed him was that he’d never been safer.


	4. Moments of Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha has a headache brought on by dealing with irritating humans. She goes in search of Bucky, but finds Steve instead who, of course, offers to help. She actually lets him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Natasha and Steve bonding fluff from the [Cards on the Table](http://archiveofourown.org/series/508494) (Asexual Steve/Incubus Bucky) universe, set around/just before the end of An Ace Up My Sleeve and almost four years before Know When To Hold ‘Em.

It wasn’t that Natasha disliked humans, precisely. A lot of succubi did, even more than most incubi, but not her. Not precisely. There were even a few humans she was happy enough to revisit, as long as enough time had passed there was no risk they’d get attached. _That_ never ended well.

So no, it wasn’t that she disliked them. It was just that sometimes (a lot of the time) she could have enough of them. When the hunt was over, when she’d gotten what she needed (leaving them well rewarded for the privilege of being her prey) she wanted to be as far away from them as she could get. Especially when they were clingy, when cloying words came out of their mouths, sweet sentiments she _knew_ were lies. Like the guy this morning: she’d showered, been practically on her way out the door, and he’d wanted another fuck. If he’d simply _said_ so, she’d have been willing, because she always kept herself well-fed, always kept her powers as strong as possible. Instead, he’d actually managed to give her a headache with his rambling syrupy deceit.

Generally, she wasn’t even all that fond of her own kind, but Bucky was an exception. Two hundred years ago, without even trying, he’d charmed his way past her defenses; before she’d realised it he’d become part of her life. When she was sick of humans, she sought out Bucky. A few hours in his company left her feeling better; she was pretty sure it would get rid of her rapidly worsening headache.

Natasha tapped on his door, unconsciously keeping rhythm with the throb in her head, and sighed when it opened. It wasn’t that she’d forgotten Bucky lived with a human of his own, she’d just assumed the world would arrange itself on her behalf so he wouldn’t be here. “Natasha, hi.”

“Steve. Is Bucky here?”

“No, sorry. He’ll be back in a hour or so if you want to come in?” He was looking down at her in concern. “You don’t look great.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Is that you how you greet all your guests?”

“No, I just meant…” He trailed off, looking flustered, and stood back to gesture her into the apartment. “Sorry. You look like you don’t _feel_ great. You always look beautiful.”

“And now you’re flirting with me. What _will_ Bucky say?”

Steve dropped his head and sighed, but he was smiling. “I think I should just surrender this conversation right now.” Natasha regally inclined her head and couldn’t quite hold back a tiny wince. His smile disappeared. “Okay, I know what that looks like. Bad head, right?”

“I’ve never had any complaints.” Her quick smile was sly and she watched, amused, as Steve rubbed his forehead with his hand.

“Really, Natasha?” He didn’t give her time to respond. “For the sake of my sanity, I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. You’ve got a headache, right?”

“Maybe a small one.”

“I can help with that.” He eyed her thoughtfully. “Will you let me?”

Natasha considered him. She’d come here specifically to get away from humans, but Steve was restful in a way other humans weren’t; it was the nature of what he was. And he was _asking_ if he could help, not just shoving it at her and expecting her to be grateful. “If you think you can.”

“Go sit on the couch?” he asked. “Can you take ibuprofen? I know Bucky can but I’m not sure if it’s the same for you.”

“I can, but it’s not going to help this.” Her head throbbed again, enthusiastically agreeing with her.

“Trust me.”

The look she gave him made him raise both hands defensively, but he pointed his head at the couch, so she went and sat down. With its pillows and a blanket folded across the back it was almost unbearably domestic, as were the sounds coming out of the kitchen. It wasn’t the first time she’d sat on this couch, wasn’t even the first time she’d spent time alone with Steve. The first time, she’d wanted to see how he’d react to her (gratifyingly worried), the second because he _was_ restful, although she still wasn’t sure what Bucky saw in him.  

The third time had put her in the unaccustomed position of being concerned for a human’s _feelings_. She couldn’t remember exactly what she’d said. It had been something suggestive, an off-hand response to something Steve had said, but she’d glanced up in time to see a flash of not-quite-hurt in his eyes. She doubted anyone else would have seen it, but she had a gift for reading humans, for seeing what they tried to hide. Natasha had realised he’d thought she was making fun of him, because of what he was, because of what he _wasn’t_.

_“Steve, I was teasing.”_

_“Were you?”_

_“Yes.”  Easing into things wasn’t her way, so she’d been blunt. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you. And it’s refreshing to be able to say things like that and know you won’t take me seriously.” She’d looked up at him. “But I won’t do it if makes you uncomfortable.”_

_He’d studied her, his blue eyes seeming to see more than she thought he should, then he’d smiled warmly. “In that case, tease away."_

Steve placed a mug of tea on the table in front of her, interrupting her thoughts. He set two pills next to it, then sat down on the far end of the couch. "Take those with the tea,” he said, putting one of the pillows on his lap. “Then lie down and put your head on my lap. And please don’t say it.”

Natasha arched an eyebrow in question, ignoring the stab of pain it shot through her temple, and resisted temptation.

“I’m going to rub your head. It’ll help, I promise.”

It sounded…she wasn’t sure how it sounded. Odd. A human touching her for a reason that wasn’t sex was odd. But he was looking at her calmly, concern in his eyes and the lines of his face, and she decided to give it a try. She drank half the tea, took the pills, and stretched out on her back to put her head in Steve’s lap. From this angle, she was reminded of how _big_ he was. He was unusual in her experience: most men his size carried themselves like they were made of noise, needing the whole world to see them. Steve carried himself quietly, but this close, she couldn’t help but see it.

“Close your eyes?”

She closed them. When his fingertips touched her forehead, she tensed slightly and he pulled them away. “Okay?”

“It’s fine.”

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Natasha gave a noncommittal hum and Steve pressed his fingers to her forehead, making gentle circles, gradually shifting around to her temples. His hands were large and strong and incredibly gentle as he worked his way methodically across her head before switching to work on her scalp, fingers pushing through her hair. She could feel the tension letting go, like steel cables snapping one by one, and she made a tiny, almost obscene noise. Steve chuckled and kept massaging her scalp.

The throb of her headache was disappearing, the sleepless night was catching up with her, and relaxation was spreading out from under Steve’s hands. Natasha was starting to drift off, she could feel it, but she couldn’t quite make herself stop.

She woke up curled on her side with her face pressed into Steve’s stomach. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, because it wasn’t soft; his abs were like rock, but he was very warm, one hand was still gently running through her hair as he rubbed her scalp, her headache was gone and she was incredibly relaxed.

She froze, because this wasn’t right. She didn’t fall asleep around humans. Especially not humans the size of Steve, humans who knew what she was, humans her powers didn’t work on, that she couldn’t control. Steve’s hand stopped moving. She opened her eyes and glanced up at him. He was looking down at her, his expression worried as he shifted his hand to her shoulder. “Natasha?”

He looked like he was ready to get her a blanket and a teddy bear then destroy whatever had upset her. It hit her suddenly that she wouldn’t have fallen asleep if she didn’t feel completely safe. That her instincts, which had been protecting her for seven hundred years, apparently trusted Steve. That the only danger she was in from falling asleep with her head in his lap was suffocating in his ridiculous abs. “I wasn’t expecting to fall asleep.”

“I admit, it surprised me.” His smile was crooked, gentle. Understanding. “How’s your head feeling?”

“Better.”

“I told you it would help.”

“And you were right. Don’t get used to it.”

He gave her a quick grin. “Do you want to sit up?”

She thought about it and decided that, actually, she was comfortable where she was. “No.”

Steve sighed, but it was laced with amusement. “Why am I not surprised,” he muttered under his breath, but he leaned back, giving her space, obviously prepared to let her use him as a pillow for however long she deemed necessary.

For the first time, she could see a flash of what Bucky saw in him, could almost see how Bucky could choose Steve over his own nature. It wasn’t a choice she’d ever make. Even if she could love the way Bucky seemed to love Steve, she could never give up the hunt, the sex, the visceral kick of feeding directly from the source. But for the first time, she thought she understood Bucky’s choice a little better.

Natasha twisted so she was once more lying on her back and wriggled around, making herself even more comfortable. Steve bore it with good grace, looking down at her patiently.

The front door opened and Bucky came in, a bag of groceries on his hip. They both looked up at him. His eyes shifted from Steve to Natasha and back again before settling on Natasha. He pointed at her with a mock scowl and said, “Don’t think this means you’re getting a note.”


	5. Here a Wolf, There a Wolf, Everywhere a Werewolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is [Werewolf? There Wolf](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6772495#main) from Steve's POV, for a [Tumblr meme](https://leveragehunters.tumblr.com/post/148578311233/im-a-little-late-to-the-party-but-pov-for-that) asking for, surprise surprise, something written from the other POV.

The first time Steve noticed him, Steve was playing with the dogs. He shouldn't, he knew. It was dangerous and stupid; he was going to get shot or hunted, driven out of the forest or so deep into it he could never come out.

But he was lonely. They were only dogs, but they were always happy to see him and they were never afraid of him, even though by all rights they should be.

The new person, Bucky—he was, not afraid, but wary. Steve wondered if he'd be the one to bring it all crashing down. Steve couldn't help staring at him, accidentally locked eyes with him and couldn't look away. 

Heard him speak truth when he told Frank, "I won't say anything."

 

* * *

 

Steve realised that, technically, if he wasn't a wolf, what he was doing would count as stalking. The human kind, that is, because it was _definitely_ the wolf kind. Pacing Bucky when he ran through the forest, following him from a distance, sneaking through the undergrowth to get closer: yeah, that was definitely treating Bucky a little too much like prey.

Bucky was surprisingly observant, always ran with that rifle and carried it like he knew how to use it. Steve knew he was risking getting shot, but it was a small risk. He'd heal fast.

Again, it was stupid. But again, he was lonely. He had to laugh at himself, that he was lonely enough that following a person around the forest—a person who barely knew he was there—was actually making him feel better.

Steve justified his actions, at least a little, in the fact that, whenever Bucky _did_ catch a glimpse of him, he wasn't afraid. Fear had a distinct smell, sharp and acrid, and Bucky smelled like healthy sweat and the forest and something distinctly _Bucky_.

Steve wasn't sure _why_ he wasn't afraid, but it was nice. 

 

* * *

 

Steve hadn't taken human shape for years. Wasn't sure he'd still be able to easily shift, thought it might take work and concentration and maybe he wouldn't be able to manage it at all. He was sure werewolves weren't supposed to stay wolves for this long.

When Bucky disappeared over the side of the ravine, he discovered he was wrong. He was human between one heartbeat and the next, sliding across the dirt on his belly, relief exploding through him when he saw Bucky hanging from the tree root. His foot found a root of its own and he wrapped his arms around Bucky's chest, the scent of Bucky's fear, the sound of Bucky's racing heart, driving him.

He couldn't keep the smile off his face, even though it was wildly inappropriate, because Bucky was okay, he was safe, and he'd thought, when he saw him drop, that he'd be gone. "Need a hand?" he asked. Steve had never been so glad to be a werewolf, so grateful for the strength it gave him, because he could hold Bucky forever. He _would not fall_ , not while Steve had him.

Of course, Bucky had no way of knowing that. "How are you not sliding face first over the edge?"

"Got my foot hooked under a tree root. I'm going to pull you up, okay?"

Steve thought Bucky might be in shock, might have checked out a little. Steve could tell he was afraid, and he wasn't surprised; it was a hell of a drop. He kept holding him, arms tight, waiting, until Bucky said, "Okay," and then he lifted him straight up, twisting onto his back and pulling Bucky to safety.

Bucky ended up lying on top of him and he grabbed hold of Steve like Steve was his last hope. It drove the breath out of Steve. It had been so long since he'd been touched. He wanted to wrap his arms around Bucky and hang on, wanted to bury his face in Bucky's shoulder, wanted to never let go, but he couldn't. He wouldn't. He didn't. Instead, he gently patted Bucky's back as Bucky took deep, slow breaths.

He kept it up as Bucky calmed, as his heartbeat slowed and he stopped clinging to Steve. Steve felt the exact moment Bucky realised Steve was naked, because went still just before he said, "You're naked."

There was no arguing with him, and not really any explanation Steve could give, so he went with bold. "Yes I am."

Bucky seemed to take that in, consider it, then he was scrambling to his feet. Steve leapt up after him, internally rolling his eyes, because Bucky immediately started to fall. Steve caught him with an arm around his waist, another bracing his arm, the ordinary arm, not the metal one (and he'd dearly love to know the story behind that metal arm).

"So maybe that wasn't the best idea," he said, trying to keep his voice gentle, because Bucky had had a hell of a scare, but he thought a hint of the eye rolling might have leaked through. As soon as Bucky had his balance, he let go of his waist, but kept hold of his arm. If anyone had asked, he was holding Bucky's arm so he wouldn't fall. If pushed, he'd admit he was also holding it because he didn't want to let go, because it was so good to be able to touch someone, to touch Bucky, who was sort of a friend—if you can call someone you stalked through the forest a friend.

"Maybe," Bucky said as he tested his ankle, and then blurted out, "Have you got a name? I feel like some sort of creeper calling you naked blond guy in my head."

"Steve," he said, barely stopping himself from laughing, because if one of them was a creeper, it was definitely Steve.

"Bucky."

"Nice to meet you, Bucky." And it _was_ nice to actually meet him, even though Steve already knew who he was. "Though the circumstances could be better."

"I don't know. I was pretty fucking glad to see you," Bucky admitted.

Steve gently squeezed his arm and resisted the urge to pull him into a hug. He didn't think Bucky would appreciate it, especially given Steve was naked, but Steve knew Bucky was feeling the lingering effects of how close he'd come to falling into the ravine. It made him want to wrap him up and hold him close.  "And I'm glad I was here. Okay. You can't walk," Steve said after Bucky was silent for a minute. "Right?"

"I could probably manage..." Steve looked at him in disapproval, disappointed that he'd even try after the performance with jumping up and almost falling. He was gratified when Bucky trailed off and said, "No."

"If I offer to carry you, you're going to say no." Steve was very certain of that and his suspicions were confirmed when Bucky snorted.

"We're a couple of miles from my place. I don't think you could carry me that far."

Steve looked at him, because he obviously didn't remember being held up while hanging off the edge of a cliff. Reality was, Steve could have picked Bucky up and carried him in his arms all the way into town without ever breaking a sweat. It would be awkward, given Bucky's size, but not difficult. When Bucky's eyes drifted down his chest, but no farther, he couldn't help an amused smile. "Piggyback," he suggested.

"That's your solution?"

Steve nodded, because he figured it was the only one Bucky would go for and he wasn't going to leave him here.

"Okay," he finally said. "But you have to tell me if I get too heavy. Or if you need a break."

"Trust me, that won't be a problem. Put your hand on my shoulder?" Steve held very still, paying close attention to Bucky, not just to his hands and his body as he draped himself over Steve, but to his heartbeat and his breathing, listening to make sure he didn't hurt himself. When he was securely aboard, he rose smoothly to his feet and started through the forest towards Bucky's house. 

He was suddenly in a good mood. Having Bucky wrapped around him made him happy. It wasn't sexual—not that Bucky wasn't attractive, very attractive; not that Steve hadn't noticed the appreciative pause before Bucky had climbed onto his back—it was just the contact. It was like being hugged; Steve knew very well this was just as pathetic as following Bucky around the forest and calling it company, but he'd take it.

They'd gone about half a mile, Steve adopting a ground eating pace not dissimilar to the one he used as a wolf, when Bucky asked, "Are you a nudist?"

It was an interesting question, and not one Steve was expecting. "I've been all over these woods naked," Steve finally replied, which was, technically, the absolute truth. It wasn't like he wore clothes when he was a wolf.

"That's not as reassuring as you'd probably like it to be."

Bucky sounded amused and Steve snorted a laugh.

They reached the fork in the path, one way leading to the waterfall, the other leading to Bucky's house, and Bucky pointed over Steve's shoulder. "My place is—"

Steve interrupted him. "I know where you live," he said, then realised maybe he shouldn't have admitted that. It probably wasn't reassuring to know the naked guy in the woods knew where you lived.

He felt Bucky give a thoughtful hum. "So, should I be worried, or…"

Steve laughed again, pleased that Bucky _wasn't_ worried. He was so _brave_ , nothing seemed to bother him. Steve didn't know if it was just that he trusted Steve? But no, it couldn’t be that, because he wasn't scared of the wolf, either, and he didn't know they were the same person. "Don't feel special. I know the forest and your house happens to be in the forest."

"Again, I feel like that's not as reassuring as you'd probably like it to be," Bucky said, with a dry edge of sarcasm that made Steve laugh.

When they reached Bucky's house, Steve knew he should probably just leave him. He carried him up the stairs and inside, because he couldn't exactly navigate stairs with whatever was wrong with his ankle. He crouched down and carefully set Bucky on the couch and then, instead of leaving, he hovered.

Bucky stared up at him, then sighed a little, seemingly resigned to his presence. "If you're staying, you can put on pants," he said, with an air of finality that made it clear that _if_ Steve was staying pants were non-optional, and waved a hand at his bedroom door. "Bottom drawer. Sweatpants should fit you."

It was weird wearing sweatpants, it was weird wearing clothes at all, but he quickly got used to it, went back to hovering over Bucky, who was looking exhausted. He smelled like he was in pain and he was slumped down on the couch. Steve didn't want to leave him alone, with no one to look after him. He crouched in front of him and Bucky lifted an eyebrow in question. "I'd like to look at your ankle, if that's okay. Maybe wrap it if that’s what it needs."

Bucky scowled, but Steve kept his expression open, concerned, waiting patiently, and it faded. "You're not going to leave until you do, are you?"

"No, if you want me to go, I'll go," he replied with a smile. "But I'll worry." It seemed to be the right thing to say, because Bucky eventually gave him a weary smile in return and told him where to find the first aid kit. Steve very carefully, very gently, got Bucky's shoe off, wrapped his ankle, then retrieved the painkillers from the bathroom; he'd seen them when he got the first aid kit.

Using the same technique, crouching in front of Bucky, gently asking if he could, making it clear he'd wait forever or until Bucky told him to go, he managed to make him tea and toast, because _You shouldn't take painkillers on an empty stomach_ , _Bucky_ , and wrap a blanket around his shoulders, resisting the urge to pull Bucky into a quick hug.

Throughout it all, Bucky became increasingly bemused, but by the time Steve left he was relaxed, seemed content, and Steve was happy.

 

* * *

 

After that, Steve didn't bother trying to hide. He was keeping an eye on Bucky and blatantly spending time with him, even if he didn't come any closer than thirty feet.

There was a difference between being seen and inviting Bucky to shoot him.

Then Bucky started talking to him. Started talking to him like Steve could _understand_ him. The first time, Steve almost fell off his rock in shock. Thought Bucky had figured it out. He'd been ready to run, ready to flee, but no. Bucky was just talking to him. Telling him about what was happening in town. About books he'd read. About what the weather was going to be like.

Talking to him like Steve was his friend.

It hurt. It hurt and it felt good at the same time. It made Steve want more. Steve started getting closer, showing himself more. Bucky still wasn't afraid. Bucky had never been afraid of him, not even that first time, with the dogs; even then he'd only been wary.

Steve had an idea and he knew it was stupid. And dangerous. And not fair to Bucky and selfish and so goddamned fucking stupid. If it didn't work, he was going to have to run again.

Bucky wasn't afraid of him, hadn't ever been afraid of him, but that had been from a distance, in the forest, with a rifle over his shoulder.

This was his home and Steve knew his rifle was inside the house.

He stood under the trees that marked the edge of Bucky's yard. He stood there watching as Bucky came down the stairs, put his toes in the grass and wiggled them, watched as he drank his coffee and sighed, the morning light reflecting off his metal arm.

Steve was such a selfish asshole.

He deliberately made a noise. Bucky looked up and Steve caught his eyes, held them. After a minute, he stepped out from under the trees. Began to walk, slowly, incredibly slowly, towards Bucky. He was alert for even the faintest hint of fear; if he smelled it, he'd run, he'd leave. He _would not_ make Bucky afraid of him, not for anything. He wasn't that selfish, he wasn't that much of an asshole.

He could hear Bucky's heartbeat change, but there was still no fear so he kept walking. Stopped six feet away and waited, waited for some sign that he shouldn't do this. Some sign that Bucky was okay with this. _Trying to share the blame, Steve. It just makes you more of an asshole_.

Bucky set his coffee mug down on the step.

Steve wanted to run the rest of the way.

He made himself keep walking, even more slowly, until he was right in front of Bucky. He could feel the heat from Bucky's body, he was so close. He tipped his head to the side, so his teeth were pointed away from Bucky, held his breath as Bucky reached out and gently scratched behind his ear. He couldn't hold back a sharp whine, because it felt so good, couldn't help pressing forward to lean his body against Bucky's legs.

Bucky jumped, startled, but he still wasn't afraid.

"Well." Bucky blew out a breath. "Well shit." Steve looked up at him, but despite his words he didn't look upset, there was no anger, no fear. "Hi," he said. "I'm pretty sure this is the mother of all bad ideas." Steve agreed, one hundred percent. He shouldn't have done this. But he'd been alone for so long. "But here we are."

Bucky kept scratching his ears, brought his metal arm up to help. Steve went boneless under the touch, it was so overwhelming, and sensed more than saw Bucky's smile as he lay down in the grass at Bucky's feet.

 

* * *

 

It changed things between them. Steve joined Bucky on his runs, not too close but definitely with him. Most mornings, Steve would make his way across the grass and Bucky would scratch his ears, pat him, and Steve would sit next to him as he drank his coffee.

It wasn't casual. It was never casual. For all that Bucky wasn't afraid of him, he never lost his awareness that Steve was a wild animal. He was _wrong_ , but he didn't know that. Steve tried to respect that, tried to remember that Bucky didn't know he was a person in a wolf's body who would never, ever hurt him.  He was just so grateful not to be alone.

When the storm rolled down on the forest he was sleeping under Bucky's house. He could hear Bucky's heartbeat from under there and it was comforting. By now, Steve had realised he was going to have to live with the fact that he had stalker tendencies, even if he'd never done anything bad with them.

Never done anything bad with them until the moment Bucky's heartbeat went _insane_.

He was moving before he had time to think about it, racing for the stairs to Bucky's house, shifting as he hit the front door because paws couldn't work a doorknob. The rain was cold on his naked skin and he had the door open and was through the house and standing in the doorway to Bucky's bedroom before he realised what he was doing.

Then he was fighting a battle between _What the fuck, Steve, get the hell out_ and the fear that was pouring off Bucky in waves. He froze, a deer in the headlights, and only the tiny, terrified noise that escaped from Bucky's throat broke him out of it.

He realised he didn't care that what he was doing was wrong, couldn’t be more wrong, was smashing across every line and Bucky was going to be justified in hating him. This was true stalker behaviour, but Bucky was _terrified_. He shook his whole body, like shedding water as a wolf, snatched sweatpants from Bucky's bottom drawer, pulled them on, and dropped to his knees next to Bucky's bed.

"Bucky." His hands hovered over Bucky, because he didn't want to touch him, didn't want to smash yet another line. "Bucky," he called again, but wherever Bucky was, he couldn't hear him. "Fuck," he muttered, then put his hands on Bucky's shoulders, squeezing gently, and called his name again. He reared back a little when Bucky responded by shoving himself against Steve, against Steve's chest. He was breathing fast, his heart was racing, but he was pushing himself into Steve, like Steve was safety and sanctuary, and Steve tentatively laid his hands on Bucky's back and once more said his name.

Bucky came up out of the nightmare like a drowning man, with a panicked gasp, and for a moment he was still. They were both absolutely still. Then Bucky was throwing himself backwards, scrambling away from Steve, and he turned on the bedside light.

Guilt crashed over Steve as Bucky stared at him with wide, confused eyes. Guilt and worry, because there was still fear spiking off Bucky and Steve didn't know if it was because of the nightmare or because of _him_. "I'm sorry," he said, speaking fast to get the words out. "I know I shouldn't be here, this is so wrong, coming into your room like this. But you were afraid. You were _so afraid_. I couldn't—" He made himself stop, because his reasons didn't matter. Nothing could make this okay. "It's no excuse. I'm sorry. Tell me to go and I'll go."

Steve waited and he could feel Bucky's confusion, he could see it. It almost floored him when Bucky gasped, "Please don't go."

Steve still wasn't sure Bucky knew what was going on, wasn't sure Bucky fully realised who he was, or even that he was really awake, but there was an edge of desperation in his voice. Steve couldn't say no. "I won't go. I'll stay," he promised. "Do you want to come back here?"

Bucky turned off the light and slid back across the bed towards Steve. "You can't sit there all night," he said.

Steve, kneeling at the side of the bed, said, "Yeah, I can." He said it gently, but firmly. He could stay here all night and he wasn't going to push this any further than he already had. Wasn’t going to compound what he'd done by crossing any more lines. He'd stay here, safely _beside_ Bucky's bed.

"Pants?"

It amused him, a little, and he was glad he'd stopped to pull them on. "I'm wearing pants." Opening his arms in invitation, he waited to see what Bucky would do. When Bucky curled into them, pressed his face into Steve's chest, he carefully folded his arms around him, creating a wall between Bucky and the rest of the world, one that nothing could get past, wanting Bucky to feel safe. He could feel Bucky's fear starting to fade away, feel him starting to relax, little by little. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"It's like a memory, of the accident when I lost my arm. All I know is that I'm alone and afraid and waiting to die."

It took Steve a minute to respond as the urge to protect Bucky, to wrap him even tighter in his arms, roared up inside him. "You're not alone," he said, making his voice gentle and soothing. "I'm right here and you're not alone, you don't have to be afraid, and nothing's going to happen to you."

Steve knelt at the side of Bucky's bed, holding him, watching over him, until he fell asleep. Kept holding him until the sun started to break over the horizon. Before he left, he tucked the blankets carefully over him and stood looking down at him, pressed his fingers gently against his shoulder and left the sweatpants in the hamper.

He shifted and ran deep into the forest. He ran for a long time, because he realised he couldn't keep hiding the truth from Bucky.

 

* * *

 

Two days later, Steve appeared in the morning and stood looking at Bucky. He knew this was the right thing to do but he wasn't sure it was the smart thing. He trusted Bucky, Bucky was his friend, but this was going to change everything.

It was a testament to how well Bucky knew him that he called, "What's up?"

Steve trotted to where he was sitting and gently caught Bucky's hand in his mouth. He was always careful never to do anything that could scare Bucky, never to do anything that would make him question his decision to befriend a wild animal, but this was different. This was important. He needed Bucky to pay attention.

"Okay, I'm watching," Bucky said, and again, it showed how well Bucky knew him.

He dropped Bucky's hand, backed off a few steps, and shifted. It was smooth and flowing. It didn't hurt, there was simply a moment of not-being, when he was neither one thing nor the other, neither wolf nor man, when there was a void in the air. When it was done, Steve was standing in his human shape where the wolf had been.

Bucky was staring at him.

Steve stared back.

"Oh."

The corner of Steve's mouth pulled up. That wasn't a bad reaction. "Yeah."

"Right." Bucky was nodding to himself. "Right. Pants?"

Steve just about started laughing, but he did as Bucky asked and went into the house, returned wearing sweatpants.  "Can I sit?" he asked, indicating the spot on the step next to Bucky.

"Sure."

Steve wasn't sure how to start. "I've been wanting to tell you for a while but I wasn't sure how it would go." He ran his fingers through his hair. "After the other night, when you told me about your nightmare, I felt like shit keeping it a secret, so." He shrugged.

"You're not afraid I'm going to, I don't know, run off and tell people or decide to try and shoot you or something?"

"No." He'd considered all that while he'd been running in the forest. His biggest fear had been that Bucky would be disgusted, or afraid, or not want to have anything to do with him. He hadn't ever been afraid that Bucky would hurt him. "I trust you," he said and could tell Bucky liked hearing that. Which was good, since Steve liked saying it.

"You're a werewolf."

"Yeah."

"Really a werewolf?"

"Yeah."

"But...werewolves?"

Steve smirked at him, because he'd just been given a perfect straight line and he needed something to snap Bucky out of his spiral of disbelief. "There wolf, there, well, house, I guess. It's nice but it's not exactly a castle."

Bucky stared at him. Steve had a feeling he kind of wanted to smack him. "…I'm having an existential crisis over the fact that werewolves exist and you're quoting Mel Brooks."

"Yeah," he replied, feeling very satisfied with himself. Bucky nudged him with his shoulder. Hard. It made Steve happy, because it meant Bucky wasn't afraid to touch him, maybe wasn't bothered by Steve being a werewolf. A tiny tension he'd barely been aware of let go.

"I feel like you're not taking this seriously enough."

"You're taking it seriously enough for the both of us," Steve replied dryly.

"You're kind of an asshole, aren't you?" Bucky said after a minute

Steve's grin was slow and broad, but he didn't deny it. He couldn’t; it was true, but he was a happy asshole.

Bucky just shook his head.

 

* * *

 

Steve didn't expect Bucky to let him move in. Steve had just thought Bucky would let him spend more time with him. Maybe as a human instead of a wolf. But Steve was coming to realise he could never predict what Bucky was going to do and that Bucky was kind of unstoppable sometimes. He didn't really ask Steve, _Hey, do you want to move in?_ He just assumed it was going to happen and it did.

Steve had forgotten how good it was to brush his teeth. And eat something he hadn't had to hunt himself, something cooked. And sleep in a bed, sprawled out under blankets, and wake up to coffee in the morning.

Coffee and Bucky. Bucky who was becoming someone increasingly important in his life. Too important.

He tried to keep it under control, told himself it was probably because Bucky was the first person he'd spent any time with in years, the first _sane_ person—because no one in the pack that had made him could be called anything close to sane—he'd spent time with since he'd been made into a werewolf, but he wasn't really convincing himself.

Bucky honestly didn't seem to care that he was a werewolf. When he'd told Bucky the story of how he'd been changed, been bitten, when he'd curled into Bucky, because he couldn't tell that story without the contact, without the warm reassurance of Bucky's body against his, Bucky had let him. Bucky had more than let him, had put his arm around Steve and let Steve hug him and ran his fingers through Steve's hair.

Bucky had somehow known Steve wanted it, wanted that contact, had asked if Steve needed it and when Steve had admitted, almost against his will, that he did, had given it to him. Even though it wasn't the way humans acted with each other. Wasn't something humans needed. Was something that, from a human point of view, was pretty damn strange.

Steve tried really hard not to fall for him, but he wasn't doing a very good job.

 

* * *

 

Being able to touch Bucky was the last piece Steve needed to be happy. At first, he was tentative, half-expecting Bucky to change his mind, or be uncomfortable, but when he hesitated Bucky would roll his eyes or give him a sardonic look.

Steve felt like it was a challenge. He'd never been one to back down from a challenge.

So he draped himself over Bucky, hugged him if he was holding still, rested his chin on his shoulder and slung an arm around his waist, would pull Bucky to lie half on top of him if they were watching TV.  Bucky didn't seem to mind, even seemed to like it, which made it even better for Steve.

A few weeks in, he noticed Bucky's reactions changing. He didn't _stop_ liking it; he started liking it even more, giving off a hint of arousal and sometimes Steve would feel him get hard. Bucky didn't say anything, seemed to want Steve to ignore it, so he did, even if sometimes he couldn't help eyeing him thoughtfully.

Couldn't help wondering. Wondering if it was just a physical reaction to Steve's closeness, because he knew Bucky thought he was attractive, or something more.

 

* * *

 

He got his answer one morning when Bucky was sleepy and sleep-rumpled. Steve took one look at him, leaning against the counter waiting for coffee, and couldn't resist pulling him into a hug. It was warm and he wrapped as much of himself around Bucky as he could, because he'd long since given up on trying not to fall. Bucky snuggled into him and Steve smiled, resting his chin on Bucky head.

He felt Bucky get hard. Difficult not to, given they were flat against each other. It sent a little spike of want down Steve's spine, and his fingers curled against Bucky's back as he drew in a sharp breath against Bucky's hair. Bucky put both hands on Steve's chest and leaned back, pushing their bodies apart. It meant he missed Steve's reaction, missed Steve getting just as hard.

Steve opened his mouth, about to say, he wasn't sure what, but to finally say _something_ , to ask, _What about it?_ or _Bucky, I think I'm kind of in love with you, what do you think?_

Before he could find the right words, could find _any_ words, Bucky was talking, was saying, "Look, just ignore that, okay?" Steve's mouth snapped shut. "It has a mind of its own some days and you're," he waved one hand at Steve, "you. So let's just ignore it and it'll go away."

Well, at least he had his answer. "Of course, Buck. Whatever you want," he said and stepped away, feeling sad, but it was better to know.

He was more careful from then on. He didn't stop touching Bucky, because he needed it and if he stopped, they'd both miss it, but he was just a little more careful.

 

* * *

 

It would be the first time they'd been apart since Steve had moved in. Steve didn't want Bucky to go, was pretty sure Bucky didn't want to go, but it wasn't an optional trip. "How long will you be gone?"

"Only a few days. They just have to do a check-up on the arm, run some tests, make sure it's still working like it should. It's all routine, no big deal."

Steve could tell he was lying, that it _was_ a big deal, and he crossed the room to pull Bucky into a hug, holding him tightly when Bucky burrowed into him, only reluctantly letting him go when Bucky started to pull away.

"I'll be back soon," Bucky said. "Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

"How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you."

Bucky grinned at him and left.

When he came back three days later, Steve was worried. He was obviously in pain and he kind of wanted to find the people who'd let him get that way and show them his teeth. Bucky reluctantly let Steve take his bag, frowning as Steve gently steered him to sit down. "What do you need?"

"Painkillers," Bucky replied. "In my bag."

Steve made him a cup of tea, smiling a little as he remembered the first time he'd made tea in Bucky's kitchen, and set the mug of tea and bottle of painkillers on the table. "Do you want something to eat?"

"Maybe later." Steve watched over him as he took two pills with the tea, then closed his eyes. Steve went to grab a blanket off his bed and gently settled it over Bucky's shoulders, wanting him to be warm and safe, and reasoning the warmer he was the less he'd hurt. He glanced down to see Bucky watching him through narrowed eyes.

Surprised, Steve said, "Being warm might help it hurt less." He didn't like the way this was going, didn't like the tension he could sense in Bucky, didn't like how unlike himself he was.

"Maybe." Bucky closed his eyes again. Steve watched him for a bit longer, then went to clean up the kitchen. When he came back out, Bucky's eyes were still closed, his face pinched with pain and tension. Carefully, gently, he ran his fingers through Bucky's hair, hoping to soothe away some of the tension even if he couldn't do anything for the pain.

When Bucky pulled away from his hand, he let it drop. Stared at Bucky in silence. Bucky opened his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"I'm not your pack. You don't have to look after me, okay? Stop trying to treat me like I'm some sort of responsibility you have to take care of."

It hurt. It hurt on every level, hurt the part of him that loved Bucky, the part of him that saw Bucky as his pack, but especially the part that was more than a little bit in love with him. That Bucky thought Steve saw him as some sort of responsibility, something he _had to_ look after..."That's what you think."

"Yeah."

He was suddenly angry. "Fine then," he said, voice flat, and opened the front door, stripped out of his clothes, and shifted. He looked back briefly at Bucky and then ran. Kept running, deep into the forest. It was easier being a wolf, sometimes. Things seemed simpler.

As he ran, finding himself following Bucky's running trails, he realised Bucky probably didn't mean it. Bucky was hurting and sore and tense from whatever had happened while he was gone. It didn't make it okay that he'd said it, and Steve wondered if he really did think that, that Steve saw him as a burden instead of someone Steve wanted to care for, but he might have overreacted slightly. Might have been a bit more dramatic that was actually needed.

He ended up spending the night in a hollow tree and made his way back to the house the next day.

Bucky wasn’t there. Steve waited for him at the top of the stairs. When he appeared, looking tired and sore, the first thing he said was, "I'm sorry," and Steve could hear the sincerity. "I was a fucking idiot."

Steve ticked his tail back and forth and shifted, pulling on the clothes that were still sitting where he'd dropped them last night.

"I'm sorry," Bucky said again as he dropped to sit on the couch.

Steve followed him. "Yeah, you said that already." He couldn’t help smiling a little as he crouched in front of Bucky and rested his hands on Bucky's knees. "You want to tell me what happened?"

"That wasn't covered by the fucking idiot part?"

"Not really, no." Steve's voice was gentle and he squeezed Bucky's knees. He wanted to know what had actually happened, what had been going through Bucky's head.

"The people at the lab, it's like they don't even see me. They just see the arm and I'm a problem they have to deal with. It pisses me off. I guess I took that out on you."

Steve's expression softened and he reached up to push Bucky's hair behind his ear. "I can see how that would be rough." Bucky was never going to go by himself again. Steve was going with him next time. That was an argument for another day, and he was certain there'd be an argument, but if that was how they treated him? If this was how Bucky came back? Yeah, he was taking Steve with him from now on. It wouldn't matter if the people at the lab didn't see Bucky; Steve would always see him.

"Doesn't make it okay, though."

Steve lifted one shoulder and let it fall.

"I'm sorry I said I'm not your pack." It startled Steve slightly, because it wasn't something he was expecting Bucky to say. Bucky leaned forward to put his hands over Steve's. "That was shitty and I'm sorry. I know I'm your pack and you said that's what they do, they look after each other. That's what you were trying to do and I was an ungrateful ass. I'll try and do better, okay?"

Steve stared at him. Baffled. Confused. Not quite able to work out how Bucky had gotten there. Oh sure, maybe it had a kind of logic, if he'd run his logic through a corkscrew. _He thought Steve was caring for him because he was part of Steve's pack._ _That it was the only reason Steve had tried to look after him last night._ Steve was pretty sure everything he was thinking was written on his face.

"Am I not your pack? I thought..." Bucky's face was confused.

Steve looked down, muttered, "Fuck it," very, very quietly under his breath, then looked back up. This was probably a bad idea, but he was willing to take the chance that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't. "Tell me if you don't want me to do this," he said, and stood up. Bucky gave him a worried look, but it faded as Steve very carefully knelt on the couch and straddled his legs. He paused, giving Bucky time to push him away, to tell him to stop. He was poised above Bucky, was waiting, and when Bucky didn't do anything but look up at him expectantly, brought his hands up to cradle Bucky's face.

It felt so good, Bucky's face under his hands, and he waited, waited for Bucky to pull away, waited for some sign he didn't want this, then bent his head and kissed him. It was warmth and heat and he had to exercise every ounce of his self-control to keep it light, to not throw himself into it and press Bucky into the couch, but Bucky was kissing him back enthusiastically, clutching the front of Steve's shirt with his metal hand, his other curled around the back of Steve's neck.

When Steve pulled back all Bucky said was, "Oh," and Steve smiled down at him.

"Yeah. Wanting to take care of you? It's got nothing to do with you being my pack." He kissed Bucky again, unable to resist now that he knew it was welcome, now that he knew it was wanted. "Although you're that, too. It's because I might be a little bit in love with you."

"Good. That's good," Bucky told him and Steve couldn't keep his hands off him, was touching him everywhere he could reach, all the places he was usually so careful not to touch.

"You don't care that I'm a…"

"What?"

"Werewolf."

Bucky grinned up at him. Steve sucked in a breath and shivered as Bucky pulled up his shirt to flatten his metal hand against his stomach. "There wolf. There castle."

"...I just told you I'm in love with you and you're quoting Mel Brooks?" Steve asked incredulously. He didn't stop moving his hands over Bucky. He knew he'd brought that on himself, but it didn't stop him from trying to give Bucky an _I'm very disappointed in you expression_.  He knew he was failing miserably, because Bucky had just wrapped his hands in the waistband of his pants and the only expression Steve was managing was _Please._

"Yeah," Bucky said, laughing at him, but Steve didn't care. Bucky could laugh at him forever.

"You're kind of an asshole," Steve said, a little bit breathless, overwhelmed with affection and happiness.

"Yeah, but I'm your asshole." A little voice in the back of Steve's head started chanting _mine, mine, mine_ as Bucky pulled his hands away to press his metal palm flat against the small of his back, the other curling around Steve's neck and into his hair, holding him tight as Bucky pressed up to kiss him. Steve lost himself in it, lost himself in Bucky, sliding both hands into his hair as the voice switched to chanting _yours, yours, yours_. He barely kept himself from murmuring it against Bucky's mouth as Bucky pulled away enough to say, "And I'm a little bit in love with you, too."

 


	6. Buy One, Get Infinite Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Natasha drags Steve to the Stark Industries Charity Bachelor Auction, he expects to spend the night standing awkwardly in the corner. This is not what happens. (Modern no powers AU.)

Steve had no idea how he'd ended up in this situation. He was a kindergarten teacher for god's sake. Why was he wearing a who-knew-how-expensive Armani suit, drinking devastatingly good champagne, mingling with people he was pretty sure wouldn't give him the time of day if they knew what he did for a living, _bidding on another human being_?

Wait, okay, even in his head that sounded worse than it was and, on second thought, he knew _exactly_ how he'd ended up in this situation: Natasha. Natasha 'I need a date for a work thing' Romanoff. Someone who's going to look good in a suit and not paw me, Steve. It's a Stark Industries charity event, Steve. You wouldn't make me go alone, _Steve_. Only Nat could make his name sound like an affectionate threat and he'd heard his mouth agreeing while his brain was still going, _Wait, what_?

Of course, once they'd arrived he'd lost Nat to working the crowd. The only other person he knew, for a given value of _knew_ , was Nat's boss, the great Tony Stark himself, so he'd ended up wandering, feeling incredibly out of place.

The suit was a loan. The champagne was complimentary. The human being was James Barnes, current bachelor being auctioned off for charity and one of the most attractive men he'd ever seen. That wasn't why Steve was bidding on him. It was the hunted look in his eyes. The fixed set to his otherwise charming smile. The way his body language was practically screaming _save me_ as the guy who, yeah, Steve had to admit looked like an absolute asshole, kept pushing the bid higher.

Pushing it into rarefied heights where Steve's wallet dared not tread.

 _Sorry, James,_ he thought as he let his hand fall. He had bills to pay and he'd already bid too high. There was no way he could keep going.

"Whatcha doing, Stevie boy?" Tony Stark appeared at his shoulder, making Steve jump. "See something you like?"

Steve shrugged. "Out of my price range," he said, _not_ attempting to explain to _Tony Stark_ why he'd been bidding.

Tony eyed him, eyed James, then his gaze flicked to the guy Steve had been bidding against, and he frowned. "Keep going. I'll bankroll you."

Steve gaped at him. "What?"

The auctioneer began her countdown spiel. "Going once..."

"Better hurry."

Steve's hand shot up as he took Tony at his word and called out a bid. Tony Stark had a reputation, but he was Nat's boss and Nat mostly liked him, mostly respected him, mostly trusted him; it was good enough for Steve. The guy glared, but when he saw Tony Stark standing next to Steve, he threw up his hands and stomped away like the world's largest, most petulant child. Steve should know.

"Going once...going twice...sold." The auctioneer beamed at Steve as James was ushered off stage. "Congratulations."

There was a smattering of polite applause and Steve smiled at Tony. "Thanks. I'll pay you back. It might take me awhile—"

"Oh please, like I'm going to let you pay for any of that." Tony waved his hand. "You go meet your new man." Steve found himself caught by a disturbingly sharp gaze. "Romanoff talks about you, you know. Enough that _I_ know you didn't just get so horny you decided to dump all your money on a bidding war. That was a rescue mission." Steve flushed. "Yeah, that's what I thought." Tony flapped his hands and started backing away. "Go on, go. I'll tell Romanoff where you are."

Steve went. He made his way back stage, following the instructions of the staff, to the rooms set aside for winning bidders to meet their bachelors. James was even more attractive up close, broad shouldered and graceful as he turned to smile at Steve. "Hey, it's my new owner," he joked.

"I usually go by Steve," he replied, smiling.

"Bucky." He held out his hand. Steve shook it, enjoying the strength of his fingers, the feel of his hand around his maybe a little too much.

"Bucky?"

"From my middle name, Buchanan. I only go by James for work or when things are getting formal and seeing as you just bought me," he flashed Steve a grin and Steve rolled his eyes a little, making Bucky grin wider, "I figure this isn't formal. So, what do you do, Steve?"

"I'm a kindergarten teacher."

Bucky's double take was hilarious. It was a reaction Steve was used to. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Are you an independently wealthy kindergarten teacher? Because that was a hell of a lot of cash you just dropped on buying a date with me."

"Uh, no. Tony Stark decided to bankroll me. "

"You're friends with Tony Stark?"

"No?" Bucky tilted his head, confused. "He's my best friend's boss and," Steve huffed a laugh, "I guess he figured out what I was trying to do and decided to help me out."

Suspicion flitted briefly across Bucky's face before his expression eased. "What were you trying to do?"

Steve scraped his foot across the floor, avoiding Bucky's eyes. "You looked hunted when that guy started bidding on you. Sort of...miserable?" He glanced up to find Bucky staring at him and looked away again. "So I bid on you. I actually had to give up, he went way past what I could afford, but Tony came in and bankrolled me for that last bid, then said he'd cover all of it."

"You bid on me because you didn't want him to win me."

"Yeah."

"Because you thought I looked miserable."

"Yeah."

"Steve."

He winced and kept staring at his shoes. It sounded stupid when Bucky spelled it out like that. "I know." He just about jumped out of his skin at the light touch on his cheek and looked up to find Bucky watching him, eyes warm.

"At the risk of TMI?" Steve could still feel radiating points of warmth where Bucky had touched him. "That guy was my ex and he is, and was, a complete asshole. You were right, hunted and miserable pretty much sums up exactly how I was feeling."

"Yeah?"

Bucky nodded.  

"Okay, good."

Bucky raised one eyebrow.

"No, not _good_ ," Steve clarified. "I mean, good that I didn't waste my money. Well not my money, not any more."

Bucky's other eyebrow went up.

"Not that it would have been a _waste_. I mean, it went to charity and a date with you would never be a waste. You're— You know what, I'm going to stop talking now."

Bucky burst out laughing. "Steve, I'm going to date the hell out of you."

Warmth spread through him at Bucky's laughter, because he knew Bucky wasn't laughing _at_ him. It was happy, joyous laughter; it invited him to share. "I think I only get one date," he said, huffing slightly.

"I might be running a special deal tonight." Bucky stepped closer. Steve held his ground.

"Are you?"

"Buy one, get as many as you want free."

Steve laughed and Bucky grinned at him. "You don't even know me," Steve said.

"Hmm, I know enough to start with. I know you could tell how unhappy I was, which means you're observant. I know you _cared_ that I was unhappy. I know you tried to do something about it. Those are pretty big things, Steve." Steve's ears went pink. Bucky looked delighted. "Oh my god, you blush. I need to know if you blush anywhere else."

" _Bucky_."

"I know I like the way you say my name." His grin was wicked. "I know enough to know I want to know more. And I can only do that by dating you. What do you say?"

Steve hesitated.

"Before you make up your mind," Bucky said. "I should let you know there's _another_ special going tonight."

"Yeah?"

"Free kiss with every purchase."

Steve slowly smiled, amused and charmed and incredibly attracted. "You're ridiculous. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"I don't think so."

"Why do I think you're lying?"

"Because you're not stupid?" he suggested, making Steve smile again. "Are you going to let me kiss you?"

Steve nodded before he had time to second guess himself and Bucky's eyes lit up. Steve was expecting something passionate, over the top, probably with a lot of tongue. He _wasn't_ expecting Bucky to carefully cup his face in both hands, thumbs brushing Steve's skin. For his lips to be gentle as they moved against Steve's. Steve couldn’t stop himself from shifting closer, resting his hands on Bucky's shoulders as Steve deepened the kiss, and Bucky curled one hand around the back of Steve's neck, fingers brushing through his hair.

"What do you say?" Bucky asked when he pulled back.

It took Steve a minute to get his brain online, to remember how to form words. "Yes."

"Yes?" Bucky's smile was deeply pleased.

Steve grinned back. "Yes, I'll date the hell out of you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a birthday present for assbuttsthatfondue over on tumblr.


	7. Definitely Not a Meet-Cute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When being stared at by cute, skinny blond guys in the park it can be important to find out _why_ they're staring at you before you decide to write them off as a creeper (or, if you're Clint, as someone who's measuring you up for a freezer). Modern no powers AU with Skinny art school student Steve and trainer Bucky.

"He's back."

Bucky glanced at Sam.

"Your admirer." Sam pointed with his chin. "He's back."

"Stalker's more like it at this point," Clint chimed in, running a hand through his sweaty hair.  

Bucky tilted his head just enough to see where Sam was pointing and sure enough, there he was: skinny, blond, and he had been cute as hell. Staring. He looked down, as if he realised they were watching him.

It had started off funny. Weirdly adorable, if Bucky was the kind of guy who’d use the word adorable. The guy had shown up for almost every yoga class, every Bootcamp, every single fitness program the three of them had run in the park for the last two weeks. Sitting under the same tree, knees pulled up, staring at Bucky.

It had _started_ funny.

Now it was verging on the creepy.

"Now you can't blame the guy if he's got a crush on Barnes, here. I mean, look at him," Sam gestured at Bucky, who rolled his eyes, "the boy is lovely. All you have to do is ask him. He'll tell you."

Clint snorted. "A crush is coming over with coffee and awkwardly flirting. It's not staring like you're wondering if he's gonna fit in your freezer."

Bucky rolled his eyes again, because some things were beyond words to express. "Guys, come on." Clint kind of had a point, though. He turned to look directly at the guy, who was once again blatantly staring at him, even if he never met Bucky's eyes. When Bucky finally looked away, he found both Sam and Clint watching him expectantly.

"Maybe it's time to say something," Sam said.

"It's past time. I tell you, he's measuring you for a freezer."

"Right." Bucky nodded and marched across the park, heading for the guy, who didn't seem to notice until Bucky was a few feet away. His eyes went wide as Bucky stopped in front of him. He scrambled to his feet, clutching something protectively to his chest. "Enough."

"I—"

"No, enough. It's not cute, it's not funny. This is not a romantic comedy. This is not a meet-cute. Your staring is creepy as hell and it needs to stop." Now that he was standing, Bucky could see he was barely tall enough to reach Bucky's nose. Normally Bucky wasn't one to use his size to intimidate people; just this once he'd make an exception and he deliberately loomed over him. "Not gonna lie, at first I was flattered, but now it's just weird and, like I said, creepy. I can't make you leave, the park's a public place, but you _will_ stop sitting under this tree and staring at me. Find some other way to get your rocks off."

The guy didn't seem intimidated. What he seemed was _embarrassed_. "I wasn't. I'm not—"

Bucky waited for the rest, but there didn't seem to be any more words coming. Instead, the guy flushed and held out a...sketchbook? Bucky's brows pulled down and he took it. From the way the guy was watching him he hadn't wanted to give it up, so Bucky was careful as he turned the pages. It was filled with sketches of—they weren't _precisely_ him, he could recognise himself, the shape of his body, specific movements delicately captured, but there were no lovingly rendered pictures of _Bucky._ Even though he knew jack about art, he could still tell these were good. He looked up to meet the guy's eyes.

"I can't afford to hire life models," he said. "I was walking through the park and I saw you, you were perfect. So I thought I could sit here, out of everyone's way, and sketch you. I made sure you no one would be able to tell it was you." He grimaced. "I'm sorry, I didn't think about what it was going to look like. I needed a model and I was out of options."  

Bucky closed the sketchbook and handed it back. Some of the tension left the guy's body once he had it safely back in his hands. Bucky took a step back, feeling the tiniest twinge of guilt, and now that he knew the guy wasn't a stalker, a serial killer, or a pervert, he was back to being cute as hell. "Look, what's your name?"

He was instantly suspicious. "Why?"

For some reason, it made Bucky want to smile. He supressed the urge. "Okay, let's try it a different way. I'm Bucky, Bucky Barnes," he said and offered his hand.

Hesitantly, as if expecting Bucky to go for the knuckle-crusher, he took it. "Steve Rogers."

Bucky’s grip was firm but gentle and more of Steve’s tension eased. "Good to meet you, Steve. Is there a reason you didn't just come and _ask_ if you could sketch me?" Steve shrugged, gaze drifting away from Bucky's, and Bucky had a sudden sneaking suspicion Steve spent a lot of time alone. "How about you ask now?" he suggested with a smile.

Steve's eyes were sharp and very blue as they studied him, looking for the trick, looking for the catch. After a minute, he smiled tentatively back. "Bucky, would you mind if I sketched you?"

"Sounds okay to me. We're about to set up for our next class. Why don't you come and sit closer. Hell, we can probably even wrangle you up a chair, if that's something you use."

"You think I don't use chairs?"

"Well, I don't know what you arty types are like. Maybe you need to be close to nature, to commune with the earth or something." Bucky was pleased he managed to get that out with a straight face.

Steve stared at him for a heartbeat then chuckled as Bucky broke into a grin. "Ass."

"Hey, is that any way to talk to your muse?"

Steve shook his head and leaned down to gather up his things. "A-muse, maybe," he muttered and Bucky ushered him over to where Sam and Clint were watching them, obviously impatient for an explanation.

Which is how the three of them ended up with a permanent, sketching shadow until it got too cold to run classes outside. When it turned out Steve still needed a model, Bucky found himself offering to swing by Steve's place and hold still in exchange for a meal. He wasn't great at it—there was a reason artist's models were expensive—but Steve managed with what Bucky could offer.

If he ended up crashing on Steve's couch more than a few times, ended up hanging out to binge on Netflix while Steve worked, or forcing Steve to take a break and eat when he got completely lost in what he was working on, well, it wasn't like he was doing anything else and Steve was good company.

It certainly wasn't because of any other reason.

 

* * *

_Four months later_

"Are you sure you want to see it?"

"Let's see, do I want to see the painting that started life as sneakily acquired sketches of me?" Bucky tapped his chin as he followed Steve up the stairs to his apartment. "Hmmmm, I wonder."

"Ass," Steve said fondly as he let them both in.

This was the final assignment for Steve's final class, the last thing he had to do to graduate. Bucky was the first person Steve was showing it to and he could tell how nervous Steve was.

"Hey," he said as Steve stopped in the middle of the tiny living room. "Steve." Steve turned to face him. "If you don't want to show me, that's okay. I don't need to see it."

"No, Bucky. I want to. There's no one else I'd want to see it first. You're—" Steve's jaw snapped shut and his expression went mulish.

Bucky's attention sharpened. "I'm what?"

"Doesn’t matter." He shook his head. "Turn around." Bucky obeyed, turning his back on Steve while Steve unfolded an easel, then pulled the canvas out and set it up. He took a deep breath then said, "Okay, you can look."

Bucky did and then stopped. It was beautiful. He still didn't know jack about art, but he knew it was beautiful. Steve's shoulders were a solid line of steel. Bucky glanced at them, then back at the painting. It was him but it wasn't. It was colours and shapes and light, it pulled something out of him, dragged something straight out of his heart, something...

Everything clicked into place.  

He stepped up behind Steve, felt a shiver run through him, and folded one arm around his shoulders. Steve swayed against him. "Me too," he said quietly in Steve's ear. Steve turned his head to look at him questioningly and he smiled. "Can't quite manage something like that to tell you how I feel, but yeah, me too."

Steve's answering smile was blinding and he turned in the circle of Bucky's arm to lean up and kiss him, a kiss Bucky returned enthusiastically, wrapping both arms around Steve to hold him close as Steve slid his arms around Bucky. When the kiss ended, Steve rested his head on Bucky's shoulder, nose pressed against Bucky's neck. The tension had left him and he was more relaxed than Bucky had ever seen him. He ran one hand slowly down Steve's spine. Steve sighed then started to laugh softly.

"What?" Bucky kissed his temple.

"You said this wasn't a meet-cute."

" _What_?"

"Remember? When you came stomping over to make me stop staring at you. You said this wasn't a meet-cute." Steve leaned back to grin up at Bucky. "Hate to break it you, but as of about a minute ago? You might have been wrong."

Groaning, Bucky tipped his forehead to rest against Steve's. "I guess it's too late to change my mind?"

Steve's arms tightened. "Don't even think about it."

Bucky grinned and leaned down to kiss him. "Wouldn't dream of it, Steve," he said when he lifted his head. Steve threaded one hand into Bucky’s hair, cupping the back of his head, pulling him back down for another kiss. "Wouldn't dream of it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a birthday present for Hailedloco over on tumblr.


	8. Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's doing well, but sometimes he slips; sometimes he forgets he's not a monster.
> 
> (Nominally canon (post-Winter Soldier, no AoU, no CACW) G-rated, very short ficlet prompted (sort of) by [ this gif set](https://leveragehunters.tumblr.com/post/150765107553).)

“I can’t go out there.”

“Bucky?”

“I’m a monster. You don’t let monsters go where there’s people.” Bucky sat on the couch, looking up at Steve, voice calm and matter of fact.

Steve crouched in front of him, unsure whether Bucky would welcome touch right now. Instead of trying, he shifted closer, put himself where Bucky could touch him. “You’re not a monster.”

“Yes I am.” Bucky’s eyes were very dark, deep and still.

“Bucky, you know that’s not true.”

“Do I?” This was so hard to fight, Bucky’s faith in what he was saying when he was like this smooth and slippery as a polished stone.  

“You do. You do, Bucky.” Bucky shook his head once, almost convulsively, teeth digging into his bottom lip. Steve wanted to reach up and smooth over the spot, but Bucky wasn’t showing any signs of wanting to be touched. “Am I a monster?”

Bucky gave him a long, considering look. “No.”

“Am I the sort of person who’d love a monster?”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth pulled up in a tiny, almost smug smile. “Yes.”

Steve couldn’t help an equally small answering smile. “But I don’t.” Sorrow stuttered across Bucky’s face, driving the smile away, and he curled back into the couch. “No, Bucky. Bucky, that’s not what I meant. I love you, you know I love you, I’ll always love you.” It held Bucky in place and he lifted his eyes to Steve’s. “Don’t let them win.” Steve dug his fingers into the carpet to keep from touching him. “They made you believe you were a monster, but you’re not. You saved me. You broke through everything they did to you and you saved me.”

“After I almost killed you.”

“No. Bucky, can I touch you? Is that okay right now?” Bucky nodded and Steve went up on his knees and cupped Bucky’s face in his hands. “ _They_ almost killed me. You broke free and saved me. That’s not what monsters do.”  

“Maybe,” Bucky said quietly, emotion leaking back into his voice.

“No maybe.” Steve rested his forehead against Bucky’s, wanting to shake with relief that it was passing. “I know.”

Bucky sighed and closed his eyes, leaning forward into Steve. They sat together in silence, the minutes ticking past. “I still don’t think I should go.”

Steve considered him, the level of tension in his shoulders, the shadows on his face. Took a deep breath and hoped this wasn’t a mistake. “Maybe it would be easier,” he said kindly.

Bucky’s eyes snapped open.

“Then you can just stay in here and not have to try.” He pitched his voice so it was soothing. Overly soothing.

Eyes narrowing, Bucky’s chin dipped down and he pulled back to stare hard at Steve.

“It’s okay if you only want to do things that are easy.” Steve’s voice was so kind and so gentle it could have been marketed for children’s television.

Bucky showed his teeth and tackled him to the floor, eyes clear and bright. It drove the breath out of Steve and Bucky settled over top of him, Steve’s legs pinned between his. “Pretty sure that’s not how you’re supposed to make me feel better.”

“But do you?”

Bucky opened his mouth, stopped, and closed it again. “Yeah.”

Steve smiled softly. “Good.”

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” he said, but he rested his head on Steve’s chest.

He ran one hand down Bucky’s back in long, slow strokes, felt Bucky relaxing on top of him. “You’re not a monster,” he said softly, mouth against Bucky’s ear.

After a pause, Bucky lifted his head. “I know. I know, it’s just hard to remember sometimes. I spent a long time believing it.”

Steve pushed one hand into Bucky’s hair. “I’ll keep telling you for as long as it takes you to stop.”

“It could take a long time.”

Under the warmth, under the brightness, of Bucky’s eyes Steve could see uncertainty; it was barely there, but even the hint he could see was too much. “I love you.” He held Bucky’s gaze until the uncertainty faded. “I’m not going anywhere.”


	9. Smitten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on [this tumblr post](http://brendaonao3.tumblr.com/post/158361699304/okay-but-skinnysteve-who-runs-marathons-and-has) by brendaona03, modern AU with strong skinny Steve and (former) Winter Soldier Bucky.

"Don't they at least have, I don’t know, a mutated giant badger or something? I feel like these guys aren't even trying." Clint's disgruntlement came through loud and clear over the comms.

Bucky didn't reply, but he agreed. He understood why bad guys attacked New York. At least, why showy bad guys attacked New York. The ones who were trying to make a name for themselves, trying to _be_ something instead of trying to _get_ something. No one was gonna give you prime-time coverage for attacking some one horse town in the middle of nowhere. But he'd never understand why they didn't put a little more time into preparing for the inevitability of ending up with the Avengers on their tails.

At least these guys had made an effort and _dressed_ the part: black on black wasn’t exactly creative, but they'd _tried_ to look menacing and every one of the swarm who'd descended on the formerly peaceful neighbourhood was built like a tank.

About as smart as tanks, too, from what Bucky, perched high above the action, could see through his scope, but they _were_ fast and even dumbasses could brandish…whatever the hell their weapons were, green sparks erupting from the ends of short silver poles. They'd instantly zeroed in on Iron Man when he'd appeared, giving the rest of them time to clear out the bystanders and lock down the area, the cops throwing up cordons to keep everyone out. Now it was just blood-hounding and herd-dogging as they chased down the scattered swarm.

"No giant badgers, mutated or otherwise." Tony sighed. "I think I'm insulted. Does _anyone_ need backup?"

Variations on the theme of 'I'm good' came back, Bucky grunting his response as he shifted his weight. His left ass cheek was asleep and he didn't know why he was here. Unless things were pretty damn dire they didn't call him up for ops in heavily populated areas. Mostly because people didn't, as a general rule, find the sudden appearance of the Winter Soldier (somehow the _former_ never seemed to register when they came face to face with the metal arm) any more reassuring than whatever it was he was supposed to be saving them from.

Things were _not_ dire, unless you counted his half-asleep ass. Bucky wasn't even sure these guys were super powered. Just super annoying.

He kept scanning the surrounding streets, spotted three of the black-clad swarm and dropped one, but the other two bolted, scampering away like rats, and the angle was wrong. With a deep sigh, he stood, taking his time because there wasn't anywhere they could _go;_ they'd locked down the whole area, so it wasn't like there was any hurry...

Except a skinny blond drink of water, bag over one shoulder, had stepped out of a low brick building. A building that was _supposed to be locked down._ He was blinking in surprise at the black-clad, tank-sized assholes barrelling down on him. _Shit. He's fucking tiny. They're gonna smash right over the top of him._

Or not, since one was reaching to grab him, maybe seeing a potential hostage, Bucky didn't know, but he raised his rifle, focusing through the scope, looking for a clean shot.

Except _hostage_ apparently wasn't on the cards. The skinny blond ducked, slammed his bag into grab-hand's face, planted a foot on the other's hip, pushed off, his other foot landing on the guy's shoulder, and, as Bucky's jaw dropped, launched himself upwards like he'd sprouted invisible wings. One hand stretched, caught, and he'd grabbed hold of the abstract sculpture jutting out of the building’s front.

He hung precariously one-handed for a second, then pulled himself smoothly up, grabbed the top of the sculpture with his other hand, tucked his toes into a curve of metal and swung his leg over. Straddling the sculpture, he directed a feral grin at the two men staring up at him, apparently as dumbfounded as Bucky, nimbly rose to his feet and lightly ran along the narrow beam to the wall, then bounced up to the top of the building using the barely-there brick windowsills as hand and foot holds.  

For a brief moment after he pulled himself over the roof’s edge he glanced up, scanning the sky, and Bucky got a good look at his face. He was—Bucky swallowed hard—he was _beautiful_. It was the only word Bucky had and it wasn't anywhere close to enough. He was thin, sharp, blond hair falling in a wave over his forehead, his jaw like a ship cutting through waves, and his eyes were gleaming blue.

He'd moved like a waterfall in reverse, flowing up and over the side of the building, had pulled himself up one handed. Bucky _knew_ what that took, knew what kind of strength must be packed away in that tiny body. And he'd reacted so _fast_ , without a hint of fear.

Something stirred in him, something he hadn’t thought he could still feel, his heart cracking open, hatching a fluffy creature that ruffled its feathers, kicking up little waves of warmth…and give him a break, he'd been a brainwashed, cryo-frozen assassin for seventy years and he'd just been smashed over the head with _feelings_ ; he was allowed to be bad at metaphors.

The sound of metal against metal, the two assholes trying to haul themselves up the sculpture, snapped him out of it and he sighted down the rifle with a low growl and removed them from the picture.

Not permanently, unfortunately. _Damn PR people and their damn non-lethal rounds._ Normally he was fine with them if the situation warranted, but the assholes’d been going after his tiny blond. _  
_

When Bucky looked back he was gone.

Days went past and Bucky couldn't get the memory out of his head. The way he'd moved. His grace, his strength, those brilliant eyes.

That feral grin.

Bucky found out the building he’d stepped out of was a studio, renting space to artists.

A studio Bucky happened to find himself on the roof across from one day, watching him step out into the street once more, sun glinting off his blond hair.

The problem was, even with how far he'd come, Bucky wasn't really great at being a _person._ He was _trying_ , he just wasn't there yet, and it wasn't like he got a hell of a lot of practice with anyone who wasn't an Avenger or Avenger-adjacent (and it wasn't like any of them were even halfway to normal).

So his approach to the fluttery feeling in his heart was to... Look, it wasn't stalking.

It _wasn't_.

It was just watching.

From a distance. Where he couldn’t be seen. A couple of times Bucky came down to street level, thinking about maybe going up and talking to him, but then he tried to imagine how that would go and retreated back to the rooftops. He did happen to overhear the tiny blond's name on one of those failed ventures, though: Steve.

_Steve._

Bucky kept on keeping his distance.

Except for the day he saw Steve furtively glance around before ducking into an alley. Saw him leap up to grab a fire escape and pull himself up one-handed to dash up the ladder to the roof.

Bucky was a moth to a flame, had to get closer, wanted to see what Steve would do next.

He followed, stealthy and silent, as Steve leapt across the rooftops. Bucky had been an assassin, one of the best in the world; watching Steve, he felt like a lumbering elephant. Steve was leaves swirling on the wind, a bird in flight, feet touching down like he was doing gravity a favour. He moved like the city belonged to him, like he belonged to the city and it wouldn't let him fall.

Which made the terror when suddenly Steve was _gone_ kick him right in the gut. Stealth abandoned, Bucky raced to the building's edge, staring frantically down, praying he wouldn't find him broken and bloody on the distant ground.

Nothing. Relief flooded him and he took a deep breath.

Seconds later it whooshed out of him as he found himself flying through the air, slamming down onto the roof, flat on his back, staring up at Steve.

Steve who'd put him down as neatly as anyone he'd ever met.

All Bucky _could_ do was stare, overwhelmed by a rush of warmth. Look how tiny Steve was and he'd flattened him. It was _wonderful._ Bucky's heart skipped a beat. It _actually_ skipped a beat. He couldn't have taken his eyes off Steve if someone had put a gun to his head.

That wasn't hyperbole; he knew what he was talking about.  

Steve was _glaring_ back, keeping a careful distance, balanced on the balls of his feet, slender body loose and poised. "Not an easy target after all, hey, asshole?" Bucky didn't reply, just kept staring up at him. "Mind telling me what the fuck you think you're doing, following me?"

Bucky licked his lips, opened his mouth to answer, and all that came out was, "I'm Bucky." It was, in its own strange way, introduction and answer both.

Steve blinked, knocked a little off balance by the apparent non-sequitur. "You're following me…because you're Bucky."

"Yes?" It came out soft, a little hopeful, but he cleared his throat, tried to remember he was a grown man and then some, and said, "Yes," in a much more certain tone of voice.

The anger slowly faded from Steve's eyes, leaving puzzlement in its wake, and Bucky thought Steve was actually seeing _him_ not just some random asshole. His eyes slowly travelled over Bucky, taking in his size, the fact that he was staying right where Steve had put him, his long sleeves, shoved up by his rapid journey through the air and equally rapid introduction to the roof.

There was a gleam of metal above his left glove.

Steve's gaze sharpened, focused on the metal, and Bucky's gaze followed it. Three plates visible, enough that anyone who knew what he was looking at would know what he was looking at. _Lot of sense there, Bucky._ Anyone who knew there was a guy with a metal arm running around would know they were looking at that guy. And anyone who lived in New York would know there was a guy with a metal arm. There'd been enough of a media shit-fight when he’d started helping the Avengers and his story broke—he's a traitor, he's a victim, he's a traitor, he's a victim, until Bucky'd wanted to scream—you'd have to have been living under a rock to have missed it.

There was no chance Steve hadn't just figured out who he was.

"Sorry," Bucky said when Steve's eyes returned to his face. "I don't know how to meet people."

"Talking to them usually works. You can try asking the time, talking about the weather. Or movies, movies are good. Maybe ask them to get coffee if it's going well. All of those are better options than stalking them across rooftops."

"Right." Bucky nodded. "Have you got the time?"

A snort of laughter escaped Steve; he managed to keep any follow-up laughter under control, but his eyes were sparkling and there was an amused curl at the corner of his mouth. "Too late for you to be lying around on the roof." His gaze flicked over Bucky again, back to the gleam of metal, and he moved to stand next to Bucky's hip, offering his hand.

His left hand.

The natural response would be to reach out with _his_ left hand. His metal hand. He searched Steve's face, wondering what this was, but Steve's eyes were warm and steady. Maybe a little challenging, like he was saying _I know who you are_ _and it doesn't worry me; I'll still knock you on your ass_.

Whatever had hatched in his heart kept growing, fluttering, fluffing up its feathers and Bucky couldn't _not_ smile. Carefully, he wrapped his metal fingers in their leather glove around Steve's hand. Muscles like iron cables flexed in Steve's forearm as he pulled Bucky to his feet; it sent little tingles down Bucky's spine, because he _knew_ how heavy he was.

When Bucky was standing, staring down at Steve, dwarfing him, still holding onto his hand, Steve looked up at him with no apparent awareness of how much smaller he was. "I'm Steve. If you already know that, we're going to pretend you don't, because part of meeting people is you don't already know their name."

"I do know your name, though," he said. "I don't want to start with a lie."

 _That_ caught Steve's attention and he tilted his head. "Start with?"

Inside, Bucky flailed, because _yes, yes, yes_. "How about that weather?"

After a beat, Steve grinned. "Good job with the small talk. Come on, I'll buy you a coffee." With the greatest reluctance Bucky relinquished Steve's hand. He followed him to the fire escape and lost himself for a bit, watching as Steve leapt down the rusting stairs, barely making contact: a hand here, a brush of a toe there, a flash of pale skin as his shirt rode up; he was movement and grace and— 

"Earth to Bucky." 

He snapped back. Steve was watching him, a tiny, amused smile on his face, and Bucky trotted down the stairs, leaping off the bottom platform to land lightly next to Steve.

Steve bumped his shoulder against his right arm and Bucky was warm, warm, warm walking next to Steve. Tiny Steve who'd sent him flying. Who _moved_ like he was flying. Who walked through the world like a dare, like a challenge, like a banner unfurled.

The feathery creature in his heart spread its wings and _flew_. Bucky thought it might be love.


	10. It's Snot Funny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to a bullshit HYDRA ray, Steve is struck down by that most vicious of enemies: the common cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Kiriei. Warnings for frank and frequent discussions of snot, wildly inaccurate discussions of physics, and fluff.

“I think there’s a wormhole in my sinuses,” Steve pressed a finger between his eyes and poked, like he was trying to feel for it, “that leads to the snot dimension.” 

Bucky didn’t laugh. He wasn’t going to laugh. He wasn’t going to… He burst out laughing and had to quickly put Steve’s soup on the bedside table before it spilled. “There’s not,” he managed to get out, “a wormhole to the _snot dimension_ in your sinuses.”

The wounded baby deer look Steve turned on him, all big, fever bright eyes and confusion, made him sit on the edge of the bed and gently run his fingers through Steve’s sweaty hair. “How do you know?” Steve whispered, pressing into Bucky’s touch like a cat.

“Trust me, sweetheart.” He brushed his metal thumb across Steve’s cheek, leaned in and kissed his forehead. Steve’s skin was too warm and clammy under his lips, but the way he briefly closed his eyes, the tiny ghost of a smile, made it worth it. “Sit up and drink your soup.”

“Okay.” Steve shuffled around and Bucky rearranged the covers, tucking a pillow behind him, pulling him forward a bit to wrap another blanket around his shoulders before letting him lean back and pressing the mug into his hands. “S'good,” he said after taking a sip.

“It’s just the kind you pour boiling water into.”

Steve lifted one shoulder. “Still good.” He sipped his soup slowly, because Bucky knew his throat was sore, gazing into it contemplatively. He had to stop several times to blow his nose, staring in disgusted betrayal at each tissue before hurling it into the garbage can.

Bucky settled next to him, leaning against the headboard, one ankle hooked over Steve’s leg, humming quietly under his breath. However you measured it—time, life, experiences—it had been a long time since Bucky had looked after a sick Steve, and back then it’d been a lot scarier, the outcome potentially so much more dire, if Bucky had failed.

It sucked like hell that Steve was sick, but it was, at the end of the day, just a cold. A nasty, horrible, can’t-take-anything-for-it-because-nothing-works-on-Steve cold, but just a cold. And it was kind of nice to look after him. It was kind of nice that Steve was _letting_ him without putting up a fight.

“I don’t understand,” Steve said, draining the last of his soup.

Bucky plucked the mug from his hands and set it on the bedside table. “Understand what?”

Steve blew his nose for one minute and thirty seven seconds (Bucky timed it), going through four tissues, before answering. “Isn’t there some rule about not creating new stuff?”

“What?”

“You know, you can’t just make new stuff. Everything has to come from something.” Steve’s eyes were fever bright and he was staring intently at Bucky, like he was willing him to understand.

After a minute in which Bucky racked his brain, trying to twist it into a Steve-with-a-fever configuration, he asked, “Are you talking about the law of conservation of mass?”

“Maybe? Is that the one that means something can’t just get made out of nothing?”

“Uh, sort of.”

“Then yes. Bucky, my body’s violating the laws of physics. It’s making snot out of nothing. I don’t think it should do that.”

“It’s not—”

“It’s snot.” Steve grinned at him.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “It’s _not_ , it’s,” he paused, because he had no idea why or how the body produced snot, “look, I don’t know what it’s making it out of, but it’s not making it out of nothing.” Steve looked dubious. “Come here.” He wrapped his arm around Steve and pulled him into his side.

Steve half-heartedly tried to resist. “I’m all gross. I’ll make you sick.”

“Not like you bein’ gross is anything new,” he said with a grin and Steve weakly punched his arm. “And you can’t make me sick. It was just dumb luck you got sick. Bad timing you got exposed to a cold virus in the, what, ten minutes that HYDRA bullshit ray affected you.”

“But the snot.”

He bit down on a laugh and kissed the top of Steve’s head. “I don’t care about the snot.”

“But this is super soldier snot.” Steve went quiet, punctuated only by more nose blowing and more glaring fiercely at what Bucky had to agree were frankly disgusting tissues. “Maybe it’s a side-effect of the serum. I can throw the shield and run faster than a car and, you know, beat up an entire army. And I can produce rivers of snot. Lakes of snot. _Oceans_ of snot.”

It was said in his best, most earnest, _I am Captain America_ voice, but it kept cracking like a kid going through puberty and it was so _ridiculous_ Bucky was shaking with the effort of not laughing.

“You’re laughing at me.”

“Yeah, I am,” Bucky admitted, “but only a bit.”

“Fair enough.” Steve closed his eyes and curled closer to Bucky and Bucky wrapped himself around him as best he could. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, being sick didn’t change Steve from being a mountain of hard muscle, but he didn’t care. He made sure the box of tissues was on the bed, where Steve could reach them, and bundled the covers more firmly around him.

Steve was starting to drift off when he mumbled, “Imagine if a dragon got a cold, living in his cave on top of a mountain. He’d get to eat so many people.” Bucky wasn’t sure Steve even knew what he was saying, but he gave a quiet, questioning hum. “‘cause travellers would be, 'You said there was not a dragon up here’ just before the dragon chowed down on them. And the villagers would be, 'No, we said there was a snot dragon’.” Bucky stared down at Steve, bemused, gently stroking his back. “We’d probably have to go and stop him, though. Can’t let a dragon just eat people, even if he’s got a cold and I feel sorry for him.”

“It’s okay, Steve. Dragons aren’t real, so you don’t need to worry about it.”

“I’ve got a wormhole to the snot dimension in my sinuses. I think dragons could be real.”

Bucky gazed up at the ceiling, deeply amused and overwhelmed with a sudden rush of pure _love_ for the sick idiot nestled against his chest. “Go to sleep, Steve. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”


End file.
